A Different Way to Be
by zippy88
Summary: Juliet meets Kate in the Hydra Station
1. Prologue

**A Different Way to Be**

**Prologue**

There's no words for the pure intensity of the surging light that stabs violently into your eyes. It's burning ferociously at your eyelids that you shut tightly in a futile attempt to lessen the pain. Bewilderment has already settled into your hardened confusion. The ravenous fear is only just subsiding from awakening in alarm at being strapped down inside that confined space of one of the bunks. You can feel your voice stripped of its delicate ability. You suddenly realise that your careful choice of outfit for the journey is completely inappropriate. The raised heels of your polished shoes seem to have purposefully caught themselves on each of the small, metal steps that have taken you up to where you stand now on the top deck of the dirty coloured grey submarine. Somehow you've managed to keep your balance, as you dare to open your searching blue eyes. Vivid shades of green and blue descend to your pupils, revealing the true magnitude of your decision to come here.

This is very much not Portland; you come to conclude inside your head. Tragic waves of solemn regret are crashing into your disoriented questions, widening the hole that your hardened guilt has cut into you. Carefully you are helped down from the submarine's deck onto the wooden dock that juts away from the shore's edge. The firm hand is shaking yours now, as the small man introduces himself. Somehow you manage to find a polite smile from deep within yourself, and you're acutely aware that it's becoming harder and harder to produce a genuine smile.

You allow yourself to be led down the wooden planks of the dock, only adjusting your attention slightly to his words, as he rambles excitedly on at a quickened speed. The only time you visibly relax is when the ferreting silence starts to settle calmly in the light that fills the room you've been left in. This apparently is your house now; you're new home. You feel yourself swallow down at the single word, unable to comprehend its new meaning. Your swimming eyes drown the homely objects that have already taken their places inside the house. But there's nothing there that is yours, there's no homely warmth that you can evaporate with into a tepid bliss, not like back home in Miami. You feel your eyes slide shut, as the distant memories of home start to waft in through the breeze of the open window. You can picture every inch of your home, the way it shimmered in the city's morning light, and the way it fell into a calming darkness when the dusking hour came.

The familiar sting returns to your eyes, as you remember your sister and realise that she isn't here to comfort you back into your safety zone. It's moments before you actually acknowledge that the poison of your decision is rolling down your face in scolding tears. It seems that you have perfected the art of crying that waves of tears are invited to fall far too often. How are you to survive in a place like this by crying? You hastily push your hands across your face, angrily wiping up the mess that you've created in a moment of sheer desperation.

This is just work, you have to remind yourself, you'll be leaving in six months, it isn't forever. But already the watch face that catches the sunlight from the window starts to tease you with its incredibly slow hands, defiant that they won't move any faster. You have to force yourself to think of the positives. It's an extraordinary opportunity that you've been given. Your career would blossom wonderfully, you'd finally become acknowledged for the remarkable effort that you put into your work.

A small ironic laugh scraps at your throat. It's all you ever do. It's all you've ever done. You don't know anything else but work. You take some sort of relishing comfort in your work, because you know it will always be there, unlike everything else in your life. So many things have crumbled away into darkened ash before your very eyes, your family, your friends, your marriage. But work never strayed away from you, it never betrayed you, never gave you a reason to hate it.

You draw in a deep breath, realising that you're being completely absurd to think that work could replace all those people in your life with one simple decision. But it has, it even replaced your own sister. You're quite aware that if it wasn't for her, you'd be completely alone, surrounded by the cruel darkness of solitude. You're not sure what you've done to deserve such a brutally hard life and it makes you weaken even more under its powerful strain.

But you'll struggle through no matter what, because you remember what her last words were to you. She wants you to make them proud, her and the unborn miracle that you've provided for her. You can't fail the one person that fills your whole life, you just can't. So you'll strive to fit in to the new world you've been brought to, you'll work so hard to make people like you.

You're more than conscious of the fact that your sister can't hold all the hearts in your playing cards, the spare ones are just left abandoned on the floor of your insecurities, like they have for many years. There had been someone, long ago, that had stolen the rest of the pack from you without realising, even promised you that he would hold onto them for the rest of his life, but his vow had unravelled itself into a bitter trick, only for him to throw your precious cards to the prevailing winds, ripping apart your belief in true happiness.

So you've decided to lock them away again, somewhere deep inside you, where no one hardly looks, because most people are frightened away before they even delve beneath the hardened mask. You feel surprised that no one has called your bluff yet, but you know better than to question it. It's safer to wear the poker face, so you continue to wear it. It's been so long that that you don't know how to wear anything else.

You're determined to stay in the shadows of everyone else. Attention has never suited you. Your scarlet laced cheeks always did have a way of betraying your uneasiness to be in the spotlight. You'll do what you're told, because it's impossible to ignore the unsteady weakness in your fragile nature when you're scolded for doing the wrong thing, for failing. You'll do all this, because you know that in six months time this island won't matter to you, the people surrounding you won't matter. You know you'll be with your sister again. It's just six months.


	2. 1: I’ve Spent Half My Life Out There

**Chapter 1: I've Spent Half My Life Out There**

The silver sheen of the mirror in front of you only seems to offend you more, as you brush away the last tiresome threads of saddened heartache. It doesn't really matter how much you brush it away, it always finds a way to stick to your skin, colourising it carefully to taunt you whenever you look at yourself in such an analytical manner. But you're strangely aware of the testing lessons that have cornered you into being someone you don't even recognise anymore. It's moments like this that you wonder if your sister would even recognise you. That's what upsets you more than anything else.

Change is inevitable they say. But you can only feel yourself scoff bitterly at the very thought. There isn't a fraction of yourself that you can remember from before you arrived on the island. Your once vivid eyes have lost all traces of their electric blues; the mirror only reveals the dull numbness that possesses you from deep within, somewhere where you've forgotten to reach to now. The nervous, shy smiles that you used to play with on your delicate lips have since disappeared into a thin line of defiant confidence in the indifference that you pretend to feel.

It's been an expensive lesson to learn that a smile can hide so much. Everyone questions a gloomy frown; concern is thick inside their voices, as curiosity urges them to discover the secretive truths. But everyone falls into the pit of deceit with one flash of a smile, the wider it is, the deeper they fall into the world you've created in pretence for them. No one questions your indifference either, in some ways they hold an unnerved fear for the plainness of your expression; they don't know how to respond to you, so you win, they leave you alone inside your lonely head.

It's all part of your survival here. You had to learn that too after the six months disappeared into the calendar of your history. It still pains you to know that your decision led you here, to be a prisoner in the middle of nowhere. It's all that fills your waking thoughts and your undying dreams. You want to leave. You don't belong here. You've known it all along, and pretending otherwise seemed pointless after the first few months, so you've stopped lying to yourself.

Instead your life rolls across the playing board with every clatter of the dice, and you no longer care where you land. It doesn't matter in the end because the finish is nowhere in sight for you, the glorious winning prize of actually being allowed to return home has once again been snatched from your fingertips. You can't go home, you're constantly being told, because women need you here. It infuriates you to hear that every time you ask Ben to go home. You even lose your well perfected control over your emotions, subsiding into the rough seas of your tears. But it doesn't help. He doesn't waver from his concrete decision.

Now you have a new project to focus on. You remember the pile of folders that are still sitting untouched on the white counter of your kitchen, and now you allow a heavy sigh to escape from your lips as you remember Ben's visit this morning. It seems he is using every available excuse to come and see you. You visibly shudder at the vileness of his presence. You hate him. You've never felt that way about anyone that strongly about anyone. Yet he has the subtle talent for making it so easy to instil so much hatred into him.

He's demanded that you read through the files, to memorise most of the details. You held your tongue steady with a reluctant bite, as you remember what he told you only days before. Your eyes cleanse themselves again with a gentle flow of tears at the memory of seeing her, your sister, on one of the screens of Mikhail's communication station. You smile loosely, overwhelmed by the healthy sight of her, the joyous happiness that radiated from her and the small boy who ran around her feet. It had worked. You gave her the child that she had so desperately wanted for years, and she'd even shared your name with the precious miracle.

You owe Ben now. You feel obliterated in the wake of his cheating ways. You pinned the liar name tag onto his chest in a fit of desperate frustration, and of course he's proved you wrong. Now you owe him. You scoff under your breath at the irony of it all, you owe that man nothing, yet you have no choice but to do as he says. You pad across the kitchen, towards the files that you've tried to ignore for several hours now. But the bright clock face is taunting from the wall above you, its steady black hands slipping slowly. You sigh deeply, realising that unsettled mayhem is just around the corner.

There are only three folders you now notice, but they are so thick that you could have sworn that there were more folders there. You pause for a moment. Your thumb is lightly tracing the black button that fastens the red folder closed. You come to realise that this is someone's whole life inside that file, darkened secrets that no one else would know, hidden memories that only hold sentiment for the name attached to the top of the file.

The rancid guilt has started to well up inside you, tugging harshly at your shame. You try to push away the plaguing thoughts of the reversed situation, the possibility that somewhere your whole miserable existence could be shoved hastily into a tiny red file, and who would read it? What would they think of you? What names would they call you, weak, feeble, fragile, lonely, a joke, a mess, a waste of space? You shake your head violently, muttering at yourself for being so stupid, and pick up the file on top of the pile in a hurried motion. You want this to just be over.

You collect the white mug from the other side of the counter, its steaming vapour rising quickly from its contents. Sitting down on the soft sofa, you slip your finger down the thin opening of the file, flipping it open with a disinterested reluctance. You let your eyes fall across the white paper that fills the front, the blackened ink typed out in a neat, formality that you've only seen in medical records.

The name filters into your head and then floats across the breeze again, you don't care about this person; you've never met them. You flicker your eyes barely across the various medical data that stares up at you willingly from the piece of paper, birth date, blood type, weight, height, hair colour, eye colour, shoe size. You quickly sigh as the boredom starts to roll inside you, forcing yourself to stick with the tedious task set to me by Ben. Great, you think silently, you know this woman's shoe size, how on earth would this be helpful to Ben's cause?

You've already been briefed carefully on how important this task is, and you feel a sarcastic laugh rumble through your throat, trying to escape from your nose. Ben needs one of these files to help save his life, to remove the tumour that you discovered only days before. You don't understand how this particular file is going to bring any sort of help that Ben needs. As far as you can tell from the first page, this woman hasn't got any knowledge of medical issues. You're confused as to why you've been asked to look at this folder; it doesn't hold any relevant information that would help Ben's cause.

You draw in your breath tightly, almost tempted to push this one to one side. This is a waste of time you conclude. She obviously isn't qualified, so why would you waste your time looking further into this woman's secrets? It isn't fair. You don't care what Ben says, you won't read any further, now that you know she isn't useful to the cause.

But something fails to make you put the file to one side. It's a faint scarlet mark, almost like a box shape that bleeds through from the page behind the one you're currently half-heartedly studying. You're intrigued as to what it is. It must be something important for it to be such a scarlet shade that has the ability to show through another page of paper.

You quickly loose the shame of peeking, knowing that you've been ordered to do it anyway. You flip the page to reveal something that you hadn't expected at all. You're confused at first as to what it is, your eyes immediately drawn to the small images printed on the paper roughly. For once you're stuck for words, unable to understand what you're actually seeing. But yet your tranquil blue eyes spark with a renewed energy, as you can't rip them away from the pictures in front of you.

There's an odd beauty that surrounds the face that stares back at you blankly. Dark spots of ink mark the eyes, yet you swear you can see the distant innocence that lingers there amidst the vivid guilt. You trace the dark lines of the thick hair that spills from the woman's head in an unkempt mess. It fascinates you to see this woman's natural beauty even through the dirty shackles of crime. You let your eyes wash over the black number board that the woman holds in loose shame. Then you finally read the violent red box and the word that sits accusingly inside it, as if it was a prisoner itself; fugitive.

A cutting frown shapes your thin brow, as your swirling curiosity comes to replace the boredom that had once hung there. You turn the page quickly, eager to learn about why those pictures were taken, and why the woman looks so destroyed at being caught. You soon begin to build a montage inside your head of a world that is so unknown to you, but is probably the most memorable thing for her.

Your stomach turns cruelly on yourself, as you read about her step-father, the drunk who violently lashed out at his miserable world and at the people who filled it. You're narrowly aware that it doesn't mention if he hurt her, it only says he hurt her mother. You suddenly start to wish that you had more information now that somehow this file was thicker to fill in the missing answers that you're now desperate to know.

She murdered him. It's such a simple, short sentence but you have to read it several times to really understand its meaning. Had it really been that bad that she had decided that it was the only way to survive? You find yourself scrutinising each and every little black detail that makes up the two small pictures, you're unable to comprehend that such a shape of innocence could be capable of such a terrible act.

How concrete was this information in the file? You ask in vain, knowing immediately that Mikhail is an expert at collecting information on people. There would be no doubt that it was all the hardened truth that lay at your fingertips. Yet somehow you still need convincing a little more, so you rush forwards, reading more of the many paragraphs that make up the next few pages.

The clinical black font seems far too criminal in itself. The unemotional smoothness in its shape is most certainly casting guilt into the woman. It's far removed sentiment only chills you further to the bone. The tragic fairytale unfolds before your eager eyes from its accusing details. Then the unannounced, disastrous pain flies from a simple sentence stamped harshly at the end of the paragraph you're reading. Her mother informed the police.

You're not even aware that you've just swallowed three times in succession, as you try your hardest to comprehend every question that forms in your head. You can't even begin to imagine what turmoil that the young woman has tussled with inside her head at her mother's Judas kiss. The unadulterated innocence that lingers in those darkened eyes of the picture is only holding on, you assume, because she still believes she made the right decision. You don't even have to question this; you know she still thinks this, because she ran.

You hold your breath tightly, as you realise that you've only just started to break through the heavy ice that covers this woman's cold life. A strange, almost foreign emotion of sympathy rises up within you from somewhere deeper than you have dared to venture before. You're not sure why you're feeling such intensity for this person that you've never met before, yet you're too weak to stop reading now.

There's a heart-rending moment when you pause over another paragraph, slowly believing that you're reading something out of Shakespeare. The familiar tale of loosing a best friend, the childhood sweetheart that you know should have become more, stares at you from out of the page. She killed him too. You curve around the simple, colourless words that form what happened in such a brazen manner. You believe she was surviving, doing only what she knew, running away. He was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

A deepening frown settles itself poignantly onto your darkened brow, there's more to your dismay. Her mother is dying of cancer. A sudden sharpness twists violently inside your throat, slicing through your skin, spilling out all the pain that you've tried to keep at bay for so long. The single word, cancer, sticks inside your frozen blues. How familiar the whole scene plays out within your mind, the various emotions that fill you with constant dread, distressed into a darkened oblivion, and plunged into a world of agonising uncertainty. A twinge of sympathy rushes to your foreground, in deep awe at the woman you've never met, who tried to see her dying mother, to try to cope with the turmoil of such a destructive disease.

You finally realise that you didn't properly study her name, you've forgotten it already, you're not even sure if you even looked at it. You flip the file back to the front cover, keeping your slender index finger in between the pages, eager to continue reading until the end. There's a violent strength about the dark ink that sits at the top of the page, haunting your fragile clear eyes. Katherine Anne Austen. You try it for the first time on your tongue, the whole name, in a quiet whisper and it feels oddly foreign, yet there's a flicker of recognition that this won't be the last time you'll say that name.

You're deeply intrigued by the intricateness of her life after the murder. You can see a certain new strength that radiates from the brunette, the cleverness that develops in her from using all those people without any hint of remorse. Seduction shuffles its steady feet into the pages, as you read about the men that she killed at the New Mexico bank. You're not quite sure why but there's a bitterness that taints your mouth in a rapid sweep. It doesn't sit well with you to learn this about her. Maybe it's because now you know that men come easily to her, and for you it never happens, not properly.

There's a sense of artificial sadness for them, as you quickly discover that she needed them to get the toy aeroplane that once belonged to her deceased friend. You can see the shallow mournful act in all of this, that plane was the only thing that reminded her of him, of what she had lost before she committed murder. She does care, regardless of what the document in your hand reads.

It's almost too much to take in at once, but you know you have to continue, your mind won't let you ease out of the electric urgency that it's pushed itself into. Your heart plummets to narrowing depths when you read the next page, she was once married. Another very recognisable story lingers between the sheets of paper, taunting you into believe that this could very well be your life that you are reading about with only certain details changed. His name flows across you without much caring essence about it; Kevin, a policeman in Miami.

There's a moment that splits right in front of you, coming dangerously close to cutting deep within your heavy heart. She had lived in Miami, so close, yet so far. It doesn't mention anywhere on the page about her true feelings for the man she chose to wed, and it makes you wonder if she ever did profoundly love him like she would have promised at her wedding. You start to recall your own precious wedding; the glorious happiness that surrounded you on that single day, a day that you foolishly thought was going to be the start of that thing we call forever. How quickly it had all turned bitter, and how rapidly the mould had started to cling in the corners of your relationship. It had turned into a joke, something that had poisoned you into becoming that weak, shy woman who was too afraid to admit defeat.

You gently shake your head, not able to understand the parallel line that has seemed to have drawn itself so determinedly between you and her. It's harrowingly familiar and that's the only reason why you're still sat there soaking in the devastation of this woman's life. You mutely wonder whether this woman would share the same brutal understanding between the ghostly similarities between your lives. Would she turn away from you in bitter denial? Would she even notice you at all? But you've spent half your life out there, deep in the thickness of the howling storms that twirl around you. You know how to survive its wild, taunting hurricane winds. Finally a simple questions comes to your lips, has she spent half her life out there as well?


	3. 2: In Your Eyes, I Can See the Disguise

**Chapter 2: In Your Eyes, I Can See the Disguise**

You're only acutely aware of a distant rumble of noise, its steady rhythm dulls itself for a moment before it rockets through the station once more. The heaviness of its thumping sounds is echoing violently from the walls, dancing around your ear drums in a heated frenzy. An irritated frown swells on your brow, as you step into the small room to your left, the various television monitors staring back at you with their greyish colours. The thunderous sound still fills your ears, and you turn your head towards its direction in vain, knowing that it was coming from somewhere deep within the station, somewhere where you couldn't see.

"She's getting restless," the words are chillingly plain, speaking the obvious, yet they hold a defiant air of authority still. Your head automatically turns back to him, applying all the attention that you can muster on him. He isn't even looking at you; his widened eyes are staring intently at the screens in front of him. You hold your tongue carefully, almost painfully with a tightened jaw. His scrutinising stare never wavers away from the imprisoned people that pace up and down the monitor in their confined spaces.

"Try to calm her down please Juliet," he speaks again in the same brutally cold manner that you've almost come accustomed to over the years. He doesn't look at me even now, and it annoys you slightly that he hasn't got the decency to look at you when he speaks to you. "How am I supposed to do that?" you ask softly, and this time he's cautious stare at the monitors does falter making you instantly regret wanting his stern gaze all to yourself.

His eyes are penetrating harshly with a small disgusted smile sitting casually on his lips. "I'm sure you'll think of something, Juliet," he answers calmly, as the coldness still grips his words tightly. This isn't your territory at all. You've never been forced into such a dishonest position before. Dealing with prisoners was not what you had signed up for. "Can't you –" you start to refuse his subtly hidden order, but he cuts in sharply, already knowing what you wanted to say. "No," it's harsh to your ears, "besides you have a much gentler touch than I do." You feel a heavy sigh tug rapidly at your lungs, its painful sting bites you as you finally let it escape past your lips.

There's a mute boldness about his manner, like there always was with him. His eyes are stern with a drunken authority, threatening you from afar not to speak out against his wishes again. Your feet move faster than your mind, racing out of the small monitoring room and into the narrow hallway. It's only now that you're instinctively aware that it's her that you're about to engage in a heated argument with, because no doubt she won't take kindly to her rough and locked up treatment.

Somehow you don't feel prepared to face her. You've read her file what feels like a thousand times, memorised each and every little detail of her life. But this right now isn't the reason why you've chosen to remember everything about her, it's because you're quietly curious about her, about her life, about the fact that she mirrors a lot of yourself. The acute fear is starting to build up inside you, as you're conscious of getting closer to her holding cell.

You suck in at the air around you, attempting in vain to calm the bumbling nerves that have spilled out into your shaking hands. The sudden screech of the heavy metal door resonates abruptly around the whole station, offending your ears and apparently the brunette's ears as well. You're overwhelmed by the sudden presence of this woman, to see her behind the full curtain of clear glass for the first time is uniquely precious to you.

Her darkened eyes narrow themselves at you in a low growl, a sparkle of fury flashes inside them before she launches herself back against the pane of glass with her foot. The familiar rumble vibrates through the clear barrier that separates you and her, and you inwardly sigh at realising that this was what you could hear all along the corridor before you had even arrived. It's a brazen struggle for you to remain stone faced; a thin margin sits between your lips, as you clench your jaw roughly into a cold expression.

Words fail you. You don't know what to say. There's a hurried array of facts that blink behind your eyes, you know everything there is to know about this woman. What can you possibly say? Apparently your silence is just another invitation for the brunette to slam her foot again into the toughened glass with another deafening thump of rage. Something twitches inside your ear when the ugly sound shatters against it, yet somehow you manage to maintain your emotionless stance.

You don't even know why Ben has chosen you to deal with the three prisoners that have been brought in. You weren't even there when they were captured. But as he kept reminding you all, everyone has their place within the community and everyone has a job to do. The only thing is, you're not sure of what that is anymore.

Another forceful thud pounds against the glass, instantly breaking your wandering thoughts. You hastily swallow against your neglect of the issue at hand. From somewhere far in the deepest shadows of your soul, you manage to gain the solid confidence you need to tear through the hardened wall of silence that had bricked its way up around you. "Stop that," it comes softer than you had imagined it to sound like, simply irritated at the childish act she had chosen to wear.

You watch carefully as she pauses at the unexpected sound of your voice, her eyes are still heavily narrowed, a determined glare of disobedience is still written in their dark hues. Impulsively she kicks at the barrier once again, taunting you with the vile, vibrating sound. Shouldn't you have already known that she would choose to act this way? It said so in her file that she didn't take kindly to being caught, let alone being confined into a small place under lock and key.

An annoyed breath seeps out of you quickly, as you look hastily to the small, black camera that sits way up above your head on the side of the wall. The daring red light blinks at you, a silent threat from the person that you know is sat behind it watching you. Hurriedly you turn back to her again just as she plunges her foot into the clear wall once more. "Katherine," you finally snap, resorting to the name you had traced so many times with your fingers on the front page of her file.

It has the desired affect, as she steadies her foot before another heavy bombardment against the wall of her cell. Her eyes widen swiftly, allowing you to see clearly for the first time the natural shape of them. She drops her foot to the floor and her mouth slips open slightly in apparent shock. There's a moment when you think you've got her finally, that she will behave for you because you used her real name. But as you should have known, she curls up into her retaliation, and spits back at you, "no one calls me Katherine," before she raises her foot and smacks it harder against the glass.

You suck in at your lips slightly, causing the thin line of them to tighten at the horrible sound that envelopes the room with a thunderous echo. "Okay, Kate," you breath out reluctantly while your eyes widen slightly in annoyance at being corrected. She ignores you this time, clearly not letting the sound of her name affect her like it had moments before. "Would you please stop that?" you force out with a stronger voice, before the next blow to the wall began.

The demanding request only seems to fuel her anger more, as she kicks faster and firmer than before. You're quietly in awe of her energy and how much stamina she's managed to retain, yet you know you're the one that's supposed to be in control of the situation. Ben is expecting it. But as the brunette slams her foot into the glass again with an unrequited rile, you realise that she is holding all the supremacy over this futile meeting.

In a desperate bid to gain some of the control back, you resort to something that you thought you'd never do, something you could never see yourself being capable of. But then again, you had never seen yourself so threatened by Ben before. He held all the influences in letting you go home or not. It stabs at your stomach to know that you have to prove yourself to him. "You know the more you fight, the worse it becomes for your friends." Blackmail, so this was how low you would stoop?

It works though, she stalls in her countless attempts at the glass, and her eyes suddenly double in size. She stares at you through concentrated eyes, murderous in their revenge upon me. You try to ignore the ripple of guilt that swims across your mind. "What have you done with them?" she shouts with pure venom dripping from her tongue. You try to ignore that too.

Now that you've got her attention, you try to engage her into a simple conversation. you have to at least attempt to win her trust. "Before you're plane crashed where were you flying from?" you already know the answer, but it's interesting to hear her own words, to see if she starts to lie to you from the very beginning. There's a moment's pause in her breath and you can see her struggling with the new turn of direction in the conversation. She's uncomfortable, restless in herself.

"What did you do with your friends?" she demands loudly again. You feel the corners of your mouth lift softly, only slightly, at the compassion that the brunette obviously holds for the two men that she's referring to. She sees your smile, a mistake on your part, and she violently smacks her foot back into the place on the glass that it must know so well by now. "Stop that first," you call out, trying to give your voice some gentleness. She just laughs at you bitterly in return, defiantly telling no.

You start to reason with her, trying to make her realise that you're not the bad person in all of this. But that's a joke because he's the one that's sculptured all of this, it's Ben that's the bad person, yet it's you that takes the full stent of the retaliation. "I want to know where Jack and Sawyer are now," she's screaming the demand out now, she's obviously desperate now. you open your lips slightly before quickly shutting them tight, regaining a little extra breath to steady your unbroken nerves. "I will," you foolishly promise, "just please, stop kicking the glass."

You can see the pain inside her darkened eyes ferret around. She's unsure of what to do. You almost think that she's going to cease her torment on the glass wall and turn to sit quietly on the long metal table that's bolted to the floor. But to your dismay she doesn't, and once again you're reminded of her outrageous courage and energetic vigour, as she thuds against the glass one more time.

The last remaining reserve you have disappears without a trace. You don't know what to do. She's not calming down. You want to try again, so desperately, just to persuade yourself that you can win her trust, but the confidence you need fails me. You slip across the metal tiles of the floor towards the open door, carefully pulling it after yourself. You can't complete with her. Who were you kidding to think you ever could?

"I guess you were the wrong person to send in after all." You turn towards the coldness of the voice behind you, just after the door slams shut with a vivid slam. You suck at the inside of your lips, hoping that he sees nothing but a rigid hardness on your face rather than the crumbling interior. "Try again in about an hour," he says in monotone, and there's a ferreting frown that etches its way onto your brow. "But you just said I was the wrong person," you clarify, reminding him of his words. He gives a little huff of air, as if he was trying to laugh but it somehow gets caught in his throat, "but you're all we have, Juliet."

You lift your head up slightly showing your irritancy at his words, before nodding at him briefly in acknowledgement. You already know that you've seen something that he hasn't. He wouldn't have been able to see it from the ageing technology that sits inside the camera. It makes you smile, as you walk away from him down the hallway to the exit. You saw a flicker of truth in those eyes of hers, the unveiled emotion before the rebellious mask was pulled over her face again. In a single moment you had seen in her eyes the very disguise that was written in metaphors within her thick file, and you feel yourself wanting to see it again.


	4. 3: Rebels of the Rebel Scene

**Chapter 3: Rebels of the Rebel Scene**

Your head is still revolving madly around the first encounter that you've had with the woman who's consumed so much of my time in the last few weeks, as you make your way silently back to the small room you had left over an hour ago. There isn't that awful hum echoing through the whole station, and when you approach closer to the metal door you realise with a soft smile that she's given up on the idea of kicking the solid glass partition.

The scraping screech fills your ear drums, smashing viciously against them when the heaviness of the door finally yields. You juggle carefully the tray in your hands that holds a small plate of food and a simple bottle of water. Your eyes are deep in their search for the wild curls of her dark hair, but for a moment you're sure that she is no longer in that room where you had left her. A tightening breath struggles in your throat and thrashes out at your parched lungs, until you finally catch a glimpse of her shrunken form behind the large, metal table, and you're once again able to please your lungs with a fresh new breath.

You pause for a moment with a narrow frown painting itself across your forehead, dripping its concern like delicate drops of pain from your brow. She's different to how you had left her. The determined energy that had gripped her whole demeanour before is completely ripped from her now. Her slumped figure is curled into a protective ball, hiding cleverly behind the table. Suddenly you grow regretful for making her stop her futile aims of rage at the glass. At least you could see her vent some sort of emotion, to know that she was the person in the file that you had read so much about. But this woman before you now doesn't match any of the descriptions that present themselves inside that file. This was new and you don't how to deal with this side of her.

Nervously you lick at your bottom lip, as you place the tray down onto the table next to you in your part of the room. Twisting one of the switches on the control panel that sits on its metal frame, you now know that she can hear you clearly when you chose to spoke. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself for whatever would come next. "I have some food for you," you say loud enough for the microphone to pick up your voice without trying to sound hostile. The irony of it makes you swallow down on a silent laugh. You're already the hostile to her.

She doesn't look at you. In fact she doesn't do anything. She remains in her stillness that she's created around herself. Your teeth play slowly at the insides of your lips nervously, as you try to contemplate on what to say next. "Can I trust you not to do anything while I bring in your food?" Again she's blank. There isn't even a flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes that she's even heard what you've just said. You take it as a good enough answer. She's not going to say anything more, no matter how long you stand there and ask, so you slowly pick up the tray and head towards the door.

The hovering nerves have come back to you, grasping at every inch of your hands and making them shake noticeably. This time there would be no glass. She would be before you without any sort of protection. Would you need the protection? She's a murderer though, you remember quickly, and you swallow harshly at the galvanised fear that's strengthened inside you.

Slowly the door opens with a similar squeal of friction between the joints, and you carefully make your way inside. You can see her much clearly now that you can see past the table. She's still slouched against the wall, the back of her head teasing you into wanting to know what her eyes are saying, if they are saying anything at all. You place the tray down softly onto the metal table, grimacing slightly at the seemingly still loud twang as they hit each other.

You know you shouldn't linger around any longer than you need to. Ben instructed you very strictly about that and you know he's watching you from the monitoring room just down the hallway. But the complete stillness of her enthrals you to the point where your feet just don't move. It's now that you have the silent opportunity to study her calm figure. Her arms are wrapped around her across her stomach, her back is half pressed up against the wall and slightly turned away from you at the same time. Her pale trousers are pulled tight under her bent legs from where she's tucking them under her. You're amazed at how comfortable she looks in such an awkward and painful position.

"Juliet." You reluctantly turn around, frustrated at being denied this one chance of being able to scrutinise her in person without her even acknowledging you doing so. You raise your eyes at Ben while you draw out a quiet sigh and he gestures quickly with his head that you're to follow him instantly without question. To avoid any embarrassment on your part, you do as you're he says, not because you want to, but because you don't want her to see the way he talks to you.

The door slams shut and the weighty bolt is replaced back to secure it. "We're going to move her," he says in a low but concrete voice. You feel your brow fall downwards slightly in confusion. "Why?" you ask, tilting your head to your right side a little. "Because we need her with Ford now," he spoke simply, "and Shepherd will be moved into here." There's still a frown that tugs at your eyebrows, but not because you're confused about the situation, it's because he's mentioned Ford.

Ben's already informed you of the reasons surrounding the capture of these three people. But it still somehow startles you to know that she's got some sort of feelings for both of the men that are being held prisoner. Something turns in the bottom of your stomach, a sort of disappointment that she won't be kept on her own for you to visit just her. You don't know why it's there, why it's taunting you so with its devilish thoughts of not being able to see her alone.

"But it's too soon," your desperate words spill out before you have a chance to think, and you can see that it catches him off guard because his eyes widen slightly. You rush yourself to cover up your brazen mistake. "I thought you wanted to keep them separate until they grew desperate," you copy his words that he told you days before the capture of them, hoping that it convinces him.

You watch him warily as he lifts his head slowly to the right with an air of thought surrounding him. "And you don't think that's now?" he finally asks, his faint eyebrows rise up slowly. You narrow your eyes a little at his clearly irritated tone, before you dare to answer him truthfully, "no, I don't." He draws in a deep breath through his nose, as he glances away from you, and you know he's meticulously thinking about what you've said. "And what makes you say that?" he stares back at you with a new intensity burning in his widened eyes. "Because she no longer asks for them," you automatically say without having to stop and ponder too much. You know now how to play his game. His eyes soften slightly in the dim orange glow of the hallway; his head lifts slowly before falling again while his mouth makes no sound just a gentle shape of an _O_. "And how do you suppose we make her start asking for them?" he smiles contently at himself, as his words tumble out with an air of knowingness. It pains you to say it, but it's the only way you know to stall his major plans for the brunette. The harrowing guilt is already sliding up your throat as you let the words leave your mouth with a strong determination. "You'd keep them isolated," you make sure that you use only his proclaimed pronoun; you don't want to include yourself in this awful mess, even though you're sinking deeper with every moment. "Then you'd push them until they asked for their friends," you continue as strongly as you can, "then you can move them."

For a moment you think he's only allowing you this one chance to question his decision because he knows he's going to cut you down and embarrass you, but to your surprise he nods his head and speaks the word you never thought you'd hear him say, "okay". He must see your bewilderment at his minimal answer because he gives a coy smile at you, "this is part of the reason why I chose you for this project, Juliet." You're at a lost for words, you hadn't expected him to agree with you, quite the contrary; you had been expecting to challenge him with a full argument. "You can deal with Austen for the time being," he added. you nod absentmindedly, not fully taking in the whole situation. You have full control over her case; you're the one who's responsible for her, but why? Has he guessed? "You can make her talk," he concludes your thoughts, obviously seeing the questions form in your expression, "just make sure you get results, Juliet."

You don't waste anymore time in speaking to Ben, in fear that he might change his decision in a cruel turn of events, you rush towards the door to the room opposite her holding cell with a vigorous stride. The clang of metal as the door opens barely touches your ears this time, you're too eager to see her to care. But your eyes fall with disappointment to see her still sat in the same position as you had left her only minutes before. The lightly grilled sandwich still sits untouched on the plate and the screw top on the bottle of water remains unbroken.

"Kate," you try softly, hoping that her name would catch her attention, but it doesn't, she stays lifeless behind the disguise of the table. You breathe in quickly, steadying yourself, "you need to eat." There isn't a single murmur that filters in through the glass barrier, and you begin to wish that she would just stand up and start kicking it violently again. You find yourself actually missing the rebellious streak in her nature.

You can only assume that Ben is still in his little monitoring room just down the hallway, his widened eyes are probably soaking in every detail of your failing attempt to entice a reaction for the brunette. A small shudder pulls at your shoulders at the very thought of it. You can feel the wandering nerves still vividly mounting themselves within your veins; they're fighting to spill out of you and betray the frosted expression that you've managed to keep rooted to your face.

"You must be hungry," you surmise, hoping that she would finally give up the relentless fight of not eating anything. You're well aware of the lasting effects of the small sedative that she had been given, only having to remember back to the day that you climbed out of the submarine. At first the hunger won't seem to matter to her, but you know that the dyer thirst will come with vengeance quicker than she will expect it to.

"It's really not that bad of a sandwich," you try to smile with some conviction, but it must look ridiculous through the coldness of your stare. You're completely astonished that she's remained within her cocoon of stillness for so long. You're left staggering through your awe at her resilient cleverness. First she had tried to cause as much noise and as much nuisance as she possibly could; now she's reverted back to the exact opposite into a bleak silence, hoping that this will somehow break down your defensives. It's working. It's the blankness of the silence that instils the fear inside you, the unknown thoughts that are flying through her head without any outward signs to warn you, to prepare you. There's nothing.

There's only one more attempt that you know of to try to coax her around to wanting the food, but you know it's useless; she's playing a stronger game than you are. "Please eat something, Kate," you finally plead softly, "you've had a rather large dosage of sedative, and it's making you dehydrated, and if you don't eat or drink something soon –" Your words suddenly trail off abruptly, as you watch her move slowly from her position on the floor.

You attentively hold your breath, slightly startled that it's working and that you've gotten her to see sense in eating. You lift your mouth a little into a sliver of a smile at being pleased at your accomplishment. It hastily disappears back behind the frozen mask that you've perfected, as you watch her incredibly slow and stiffened movements. She even looses her balance for a moment, before she regains it with a renewed determination.

She hovers over the table, her hands sit palms down onto the metal either side of the tray and her sleek arms are visible due to the sleeveless blue top that she wears. Her head is carefully lowered, her eyes studying the tray with its tempting contents. She's easy to read again, you know she's thinking that she's lost now that she's accepting the food. If only you could tell her that she isn't loosing anything that she doesn't have to be on a specific side. But you can't, not while Ben is listening.

Her head slowly lifts up slightly, as she allows her weight to rest on the strength of her arms. You feel a tiny fraction of your lips curl upwards again, but the thin line of your mouth tightens in the middle when you see the dangerous threat emanating from her eyes. She holds a deathly cold stare with you and as much as you try to defend your own tricks of intimidation, the nerves are rattling against your bones.

Somehow you manage to maintain your blank expression while you watch her take a part of the cut sandwich in between her fingers slowly. She raises it closer towards her mouth with a weakened hand and you finally feel satisfied that she's going to replenish the energy that she lost through her act of disobedience, as well as the sedative that had been pumped into her. Your attention is trapped inside her pupils when her hand steadies and comes to a pause just below her mouth, with a crook of a smile appears in the right hand corner of it.

You flick your head a margin to the right and back again in a silent question to why she's delaying herself the sanctuary of food. Her arm flies faster through the air than you had been ready for, and before you're properly aware of what's happened, the sandwich is sliding gradually down the pane of glass that borders the centre of the room. Your mouth gaps open a fraction in bewilderment, as your eyes are drawn to the sticky mark that's trailing behind the falling sandwich. You look past its greasy stains at her fiery eyes alive with a satisfied defiance.

Your mind falls into a numbed blankness not knowing at all what you're supposed to do now. Before you've even got a chance to gather any words, you hear the deafening clatter as the white plate makes impact with the glass at the opposite end, allowing more of the sandwich to slip down its clear façade. There's only a fraction of it that's free from any slimy streaks, and behind it you can see her jubilant, smug smirk.

You realise that your mouth is still ajar, probably feeding her rebellious appetite even more, so you quickly close it and clench your jaw tightly in a self-assured response. Her daring smirk strengthens as she grabs the water bottle with the vivid black and white logo of the Dharma Initiative wrapped perfectly around it. You narrow your eyes in a mute threat to warn her away from what she's about to do, knowing full well that your words are useless at this stage. She takes it as a challenge, and rising to it she twists off the unbroken seal and tosses it aside, before trusting the opened bottle at the section of glass unmarked in the centre from sandwich traces.

It smashes predictably with a loud thud before it falls immediately to the floor, creating another muffled thud. The spray of water has spilled out with such force that it's now raining down the clear barrier, distorting her figure into just a blur of colours. You draw a deep breath of frustration in now that you're hidden behind the droplet stained window and she can't see you. But as much as you know Ben will reprimand you for allowing such audacious, childish behaviour, you can't help but steal a little smile for yourself at the relieved sense that fills you knowing that she is still prepared to fight and that the rebel is still very much at the rebel scene.


	5. 4: I Am Walking Nowhere

**Chapter 4: I Am Walking Nowhere**

You can see the distain clearly in Ben's nonchalant stare at the television screens inside his room. He doesn't speak, he doesn't have to. There's nothing to say, yet you still stand next to his chair waiting patiently for something, because you know you can't leave without his say so. Finally he turns to you with a look of mild surprise widening at his eyes, "clearly she doesn't like your sandwiches."

Your eyes narrow at his crude joke, mocking you subtly for failing to make her cooperate. He shakes his head slightly, as he looks away from you. "Tom's going to take her to the showers," he informs you blankly, and your jaw drops in a startled disappointment. "You tried, Juliet, but we don't have the time to wait for her to break anymore," he adds upon seeing your surprise. "What makes you think that she'll cooperate with you?" you ask daringly, shocking yourself with your brazen attitude. His eyes turn colder from behind his round glasses, "because I have what it takes, Juliet."

His icy demeanour doesn't hide his brutal intentions, of course you've already been informed casually of the plan for the three hostages, and you have to suck tightly at your tongue to refrain yourself from calling out against him. You're stuck in the same circle despite your desperate pleas to leave its advancing claws. You have to do what he says otherwise you may as well go and lock yourself inside the holding cell as well. There's no way out.

"I can try again," you offer weakly, not wanting to give up completely. Ben gives a small, feigned laugh of disbelief, before he replies harshly, "I don't think she has anything left to throw at the wall." That's his subtle way of telling you that this time you won't get your way, you can't get around him on this one. "Tom will take her to the showers," he clarifies, as if he feels you haven't quite gotten the message yet. "Can I at least take her there?" you ask far too politely than you should, but you know it's the only way left that you can gain a little advantage over him. You watch him closely as he pulls back into his chair with a deep, thoughtful shade colourising his cheeks. "Tell me Juliet," he begins lowly without looking directly at you, "what is it about Austen that you're so interested in?"

You blink several times, sharply caught of guard by his imposing question. You don't even know where to begin. He isn't capable of understanding the likeness that separates you from her with a single thread bare line. "Because she's the key isn't she?" you answer after a moment's careful ponder, "if she falls into line then so do the others." He gives me a coy smile, as if he thinks he knows the real reason behind everything, and another vile wave of distain for him washes over you. "But why are you so concerned about her?" he probes again, clearly enjoying the awkwardness that he's creating with his confrontation.

Thankfully you don't get the time to think up a believable answer, because Tom comes striding into the room and casually knocks on the open door with a cautious look upon his face. "It's okay Tom," Ben announces, his narrow, stern stare is still focused very much on you, "Juliet's going to take Austen. If you could go and fetch Shepherd and take him to the room down the hallway."

There's an awkward moment between all of you, as Tom glances suspiciously from Ben and then to you, but eventually he nods his head and disappears from behind the doorway. You breathe in a long lung full of air slowly and turn towards the door. You know him well enough to know that he would most certainly revel in his crude delights at being thanked for being granted your wish, so you don't comply, not wanting to deal with anymore of his probing questions that you yourself don't know how to process into understandable answers.

You take the woven bag from the table that sits behind Ben's chair, remembering the imperative lecture that he had given you about making sure that none of the prisoners saw the full site of the station. Your mind is so crammed with your own thoughts of despising Ben that by the time you're through the door of the cell, you're thrown into another pit of wonderment that only seems to travel deeper.

She's sat on the table this time at the far end with her slouched back facing me and her head bent low. You glance across at the stained mess that lingers on the glass, reminding you of her spontaneity. You approach her with great care, not wishing to frighten her into one of the corners. You need to remain calm that way she won't get hurt.

"Kate," you offer softly, hoping to coax her around to face you. She only straightens her back at the sound of your voice, apparently she still wants to play the tough card. You walk around the table and stop in front of her. This is the closest you've ever been to her and suddenly the fear rises up inside your throat. "I need you to come with me," you're trying desperately to keep your voice low and calm, but you know you're shaking inside.

Her head turns to you with an incredibly slow movement, her eyes are ablaze with a heated rage and there's a scar of a scorn written across her face. You barely have time to catch your breath as she launches herself at you from off the table. The strength of her hands finds your shoulders and you're thrown violently back into the solid wall with a ringing thud clouding your ears.

You have to admit that part of me had expected some sort of an attack from her, but never this forceful. Your mind's spinning from the darting pain that has now seeped into the pores of your skin on your back. For a moment the dim glow from the lights floods your eyes and spirals your vision into a blurry abyss. It clears for a brief second as you catch a short glimpse of her arm pulling back and steadying itself for the first swipe at your face, but her attention falters dramatically at the loud yell of her name from across the room.

You're still exceptionally aware of her warm hand that's curved around your throat still and the sharpness of her nails as they graze your skin. Ben is already closing in on her before she has time to think of how to react, his steady hand is stretched out in anticipation with the small shocking device pointed in her direction. He jabs it forcefully into her side causing her to double over and slip effortlessly to the floor. The tightened warmth evaporates from around your throat, and you're confusing yourself into thinking that you actually miss it.

You're rooted to your spot against the wall, as if the damp coldness has locked me into its beckoning grasp. You watch guiltily as Ben quickly produces the familiar metal handcuffs from out of his pocket and hastily shoves them onto the brunette's shaking wrists. For as much as you should welcome the sight of her being chained into a protective safety away from you, you feel nothing but great pity for her, knowing that this is exactly what she runs away from.

Ben turns to you while he stands up from his bent position over her. His glare is enough to tell you that he knew that this was going to happen. It's a silent warning that you're to follow his strict instructions from now on, and you scoff at him subtly, like you have any other choice in the matter but to do what he says. He grabs the brunette's arm forcefully, dragging her to her weakened feet as her body still shakes violently from the electric shocks he's just poured into her.

"You'd better get her to the showers," he says lowly, pushing her towards you slightly. You're swallowing at the air around you, feeling the warm comfort in breathing properly again. You take the brunette by the arm, careful to make sure you're firm but gentle so that she can distinguish a difference between his touch and yours. You somehow find it important that she recognises that your hold isn't threatening, not like his.

It doesn't really sink in to know that she was going to strike you with her fist. Even as the woven bag slips effortlessly over her still shaking head, you know you're supposed to hold nothing but scornfulness for her that you're supposed to loathe her more now. But you can't find any of those things inside yourself no matter how deep you try to go. You just assume it's your upmost awe for her bravery that is hiding the contempt in the dark corners of yourself.

The short walk across the station towards the showers only serves to confuse your tangled thoughts even more. They won't leave you alone, and you can feel yourself suffocating from their plaguing poison. It's the smell that hits you first. The rich dampened smell of disinfectant lingers somewhere on the tiles of the shower room. You shudder at its clinical cleanliness, as you prepare to remove the woven bag from off her head.

"Juliet." You pause sharply at the hoarse sound of your name and turn to see Tom coming towards you. "Ben's told me that I'm to take care of this," he informs you, softening his voice slightly, as if he doesn't want Kate to hear him. You tilt your head to the side with a confused frown taking its rightful place across your forehead. "He wants to see you," he adds, "he's down at the beach."

You stare at him apprehensively, before darting your eyes back to the handcuffed woman beside you, her pale face still cloaked behind the dark weaves of material. "Don't worry," he whispers, catching your sense of concern, "everything's going to be fine." He nods his head towards the brunette as if to make his point a little clearer without having to utter the words in front of her and you allow yourself a shadow of a smile at him for his subtle promise.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your eyes at him, preparing yourself for the meeting with Ben. Tom notices and nods his head at you with a friendly smile, and his mute vote of confidence is strangely comforting. You leave without looking at her again. You just can't bring yourself to glance at the chained up woman that's reminiscent of the black and white photos still sitting in her file back at your home.

The wild dampness that clings to the fresh air hits you instantly, wiping its clamminess across your skin while the blazing heat of the island's periling sun scorches it raw. Your feet clumsily follow the path that you know so well now, having been there several times before. The soft dryness crumbles beneath your white trainers, as you try to stall your pace from getting to the inevitable. The pale sky is awash with a distant array of cobalt hues, but you know it won't last for long, because rain is rolling in from the vast openness of the ocean. It's taken you three years to perfect your ability to predict the island's changing weather patterns.

Your eyes fall upon the golden shine of the blanket of sand that shapes the beach. A simple table is planted in the middle, not too far away from the eroding shoreline as the tide licks at it slowly. Ben is already there, struggling with the umbrella that will shade the table from the imposing glare of the sun. You stand fixed to your spot in the sand half contemplating whether you have enough time to double back on yourself and disappear behind the trees, but you don't, he's seen you.

Even from this considerable gulf of distance you can see his widened eyes staring at you, instructing you to walk up to him. You want to desperately disobey him, to run away, to escape his devilish plans, but your feet refuse to move out of pure petrified terror. You're not built for running away, and a streak of hardened jealousy paints itself across your brow at how easy it must be for Kate Austen to run away, how unafraid her feet must be to let her escape so effortlessly.

You make a move, knowing that you're only going to fuel his frustration more if you delay yourself any further. A deep casted shadow slips across your eyes, even though the full force of the sun almost blinds you with its brightness. It's realisation you soon come to conclude that consumes this darkened shadow, realisation that you're walking towards the thing you should be trying to escape from. You're helplessly walking straight into the empty openness, there's nothing there, there's no feelings only a dull numbness. But yet you keep walking the same path to nowhere.


	6. 5: No Need to Argue

**Chapter 5: No Need to Argue**

Your eyes are darting across the elegantly arranged table with a renewed eagerness in your own growing appetite. The divine scents tease at your nostrils a little too much for you to ignore the faint growls in your stomach. "I trust she didn't give you anymore trouble?" he asks with a coy smile playing at his lips while he puts the finishing touches to the perfection that lies on the table. You shake your head lightly, and he gives an indifferent nod, just something to acknowledge that he's heard you, you know he doesn't care about such things, not really.

"What do you want Ben?" you sigh finally, not wishing to stand and make small talk. He turns to you with a hint of surprise on his face, "I wanted to tell you, Juliet," he stresses your name, "that you have a few hours off." You narrow your eyes at him with a wavering uncertainty. You were never summoned like this just to be told you could please yourself for a few hours. His acting like this has suddenly turned into a full time job for you, and it's creating a rush of dangerous thoughts inside your head.

"But what about –" he cuts you off curtly, seemingly already knowing what you were going to ask about. "I'm going to have dinner with her," he announces simply, "so you don't need to be here." His harsh words slice into you with a fresh new coldness, are you really that disposable? You know you're supposed to hold your tongue, you're supposed to nod your head in acknowledgement to him, you're supposed to turn around and do what he says, but you can't. "What if she acts out again?" His face screws up with a taunting grin while a subtle laugh ripples through his throat, "well I won't be serving her your sandwiches this time."

You feel his jibe stab at you like he wants it to, but you won't show him this. He's staring at you intently, waiting for you to let your solid wall break down so that he can take pleasure in seeing you hurt. "I will need you later though," he adds, noting that you won't give in to his tormenting, "so don't wander too far." You have to force down the sarcastic laugh that is threatening to spill out of you and give him cause for his bitter tongue. There's nowhere far to go whether you want to or not.

He holds up his hand silently, before curling his fingers down, his subtle wave instructing you to leave him. That's how he works, simple instructions which with a hint of subtly create the impression that it's your decision, your choice to leave, when really it isn't. You never want to be in his presence anyway, each meeting is virtually the same, filled with authority brazened glances and stingingly snide comments that hurt much deeper than you care to admit. Each time you want to refuse to go, but you know in the end it is futile hiding, Ben knows all the places you could ever think of seeking safety. He'd find you before you even got to your hiding place.

For what feels like an agonising battle between the fickle hands of time, you pace around the Hydra station trying to find something to do. Conveniently Ben has placed his table along the ocean's shoreline too far out of reach for the cameras to see, a simple blind spot that Ben has exploited to the maximum. So you can't even find something to do in the monitoring room.

Out of sheer desperation you exit the station back into the clamminess of the island's feverishly hot sunshine. The air is thinner now, the incoming calls of the brewing storm are getting stronger, and you're sure that rain will come soon. Your eyes fall from the clouded shadows that sweep across the sky to Tom who's walking up to you with a distantly awkward look toying with his face.

"Ben needs someone down at the beach," he says without trying to make any formalities out of it, "I thought you might want to go." Your glare changes from mild surprise to a narrowed anxiety, and he seems to notice it because he smiles brightly at you before adding, "give you something to do." You nod your head thankfully at him, he knows more than he will let on, you're sure of it, but Tom is a quiet, private man who regards secrets as just that, and the concern quickly fades from your face.

Through the wide clearing of the trees, you can see the table just as you had left it with the white umbrella dancing casually in the light breeze that wafts up around it. There are two small silhouettes that are hidden underneath its careful shade away from the brutal sun. You know instantly who they are, even from this far off distance. You round the corner to see two tall men holding their black rifles at attention just behind the table, facing out to sea.

Your throat pulls instinctively at the breath of air you've just sucked in, swallowing harshly as the mindless possibilities of what has happened filter into your head, drowning you in horrid visions. As you step further towards them, you can see her much clearly, her back is facing you from where she's sat, and her dark curls are blowing lightly in swaying motions that mirror that of the umbrella sitting above her. The finer details of the floral dress come into view, and the way it hugs her small frame with a simple perfection calls upon your attention.

"Juliet," Ben smiles at you, standing from his seat and gesturing you to come closer, "I'd like for you to take Miss Austen to the cages now." Your eyes drift sideways, her face finally coming into view now that you've made it around the other side of the table. Her eyes are downcast with a stinging sadness claiming them, staring at the top of the table. Then you notice the state of the table top, strewn with broken shards of glass and white china. Your mouth gaps open slightly, as you finally see Ben's stained shirt with the remnants of the glorious food you'd seen only hours before.

"Now, Juliet," you hear him clarify a little louder this time, handing you the woven bag with a set of keys. You simply nod at him, reaching across to touch the brunette's arm, when you pause suddenly with your eyes seeing the redness that covers a small graze across her skin on the arm you're about to touch. She doesn't look at you, nor do you expect her to really. There's a feverish static shock that jolts across your fingertips as you slip your hand around her arm, helping her to stand to her feet.

She stumbles several times and sways with a light weakness when she eventually maintains her balance. It's incredible to see such a fragile fraction of the fiery young woman that had attacked you only hours before. You try to place your arm around her shoulders, just enough to help her steady herself, but she throws it away with a sharp tug. You can't help but find a tiny smile creep up onto your face, knowing that she's still got some of that fight in her. But it hastily vanishes when you come to see the blistering red marks that taint her skin around her wrists where the metal handcuffs viciously rest.

You reluctantly place the bag over her head, she knows it's coming, because she closes her eyes in readiness for the darkness that's about to engulf her. It pains you to do it every time, but the scorching heat that burns dark marks into your back from his eyes, tells you to do it in order to save her.

You guide her as best as you can across the softened folds of the sandy beach and towards the medical operating theatre, the only place near the station that has medical supplies. You know you're defying his orders once again, you know you're supposed to just toss her inside one of the cages already prepared for her, but you can't. Ben must know that you can't do that, not without attending to her wounds first.

Tepid frustration has twisted itself into forms of heated rage now that you've seen the bloodied grazes and the faint blue markings of bruising. Your mind searches for images of what happened to her, how she got them, but you're sickened by them every time they reveal themselves to you. You know Ben's bitter temper having been on the receiving end of it so many times yourself. His violent hand would only enjoy any struggling that the brunette would have put up, and an unhealthy jolt stabs at your stomach in angered disgust.

There's a draught of cold air that greets you inside the medical operating theatre. You gently removing the rough bag, a twinge of sadness catches you as you see her blank, empty stare again. Her face is streaked with a dampness that's only half drying, while her eyes are reddened with a terrible darkness, and you know instantly she's been crying. Despite everything the short, floral dress really highlights the darkness of her still slightly wet hair.

You draw in a deep breath slowly before taking the keys and freeing her from the tormenting shackles that cut into her wrists. The emptiness in her distant eyes wavers for a moment as she looks at you with an almost surprised thankfulness surrounding her. She instinctively starts to rub tenderly at the broken skin around her wrists now, grimacing with a sharp audible intake of breath, probably regretting that she'd touched them.

"Sit down," you whisper softly, patting the material of the operating table. She's wary of you that is for sure. She's silently weighing up her options, you can see it clearly in those searching eyes of hers, and then she finally realises that she only has one option now, as she takes her place on the table. An inch of a smile works its way magically into your mouth, pleased that she's stuck around this long without launching herself at you with another sudden attack.

You busily seek out the medical items that will help sooth her agony, giving her plenty of opportunity to turn and run. You're only half amazed that she's still sitting there when you return, sheepishly staring around at her new, foreign surroundings. You're glad she's realised that running here is pointless, because it gives Ben less ammunition to arm himself against her. But it squeezes awkwardly at you to know that she's not even going to try, she has the opportunity and she knows it, because her eyes keep drifting across at the unlocked door.

Taking her thin, pale arm into your hand, you disrupt her train of thought as her eyes come crashing back down on you with a heavy force. You swallow away any traces of guilt because you know if she sees them she will have an advantage back and she could kill you without anyone knowing for hours. You look back up into those darkened eyes, a twinkle of fight still resonating slowly but there's an empty deadness that is threatening to dissolve it. Is she really capable of killing? Would she really try to kill you?

Her surprising display of strength from when she attacked you before proves to you that she's more than capable, but you're not entirely sure whether she would. She's had several chances to push you, to grab your electric shocking device, to snap your neck, to do all of those things and more, yet she hasn't. You fall into your open pit of gullibility and place all your trust at her feet. It's a new concept for you with the island soaking up your last few drops of precious faith in the years that you've been held here. But she's not one of them, she's not with them, they didn't bring her here, and that means she's different. She's on a completely different side, a side that you want to be on, a side that fights and struggles against Ben and his barbaric army. That's why you trust her.

Carefully you wipe across the material soaked in antiseptic on her skin that's marked with deep scarlet rings where the blistering is still raw. You watch with a sympathetic frown as she winces away from the burning sting. "I'm sorry," you can't help but tell her the truth. You do regret what's been done to her, everything, and you know it doesn't solve any of her problems to know that you're sorry, but it eases you somewhat, to understand that you've admitted to what's happening.

As you expect she's squinting at you with a sarcastic glow about her eyes, suddenly alive with a fresh new anger that had been missing there before. She's not speaking though, either she's still in her refusal to speak attitude or she just can't simply be bothered to engage into a conversation with you. You run your fingertips across the blueing hues that have started to appear on the tops of her arms, a new concern is deepening within you.

"Did he hurt you?" it's a ridiculous question and you hear just how ludicrous it really sounds when you eventually say it. She looks at you with her mouth ajar slightly, as if she's looking for any signs that you're not genuine in your unease about her injures. You do care. You want to tell her as much, but you know it's pointless, she has no reason at all to believe you, and now it'll be even harder to gain her trust through Ben's constant tormenting.

Her silence is only making things more awkward for you. It's like you can't quite hide properly behind the soundless environment. You need words to be able to carefully mask over into one of them, a cold, ruthless soldier of Ben's obedient army. "You're still not talking to me, huh?" you say softly, hoping to catch her eye with a small friendly smile. You're not one of them and you won't pretend to be, not when there's no one watching.

She clicks her tongue as she rolls her eyes away from you, choosing to stare at the double doors, more than likely wondering how freedom would taste beyond those boundaries. You raise an eyebrow to yourself in mild surprise at her hardened attitude to ignore you, before you carry on attending to her wrists. She's silently grimacing again, but she doesn't make any fuss, simply concentrates her unbroken focus on the doors.

"I take it you don't like cheese sandwiches then," you remark, lifting up the corners of your mouth in a subtle smile. "And from the look of Ben's shirt, I'd say you're not a fan of his cooking either." She gives a heavy exhale of breath with a small laugh bubbling up inside it, her lips are curled into a beautifully innocent smile, and you find yourself staring in awe at how well it sits on her face. She turns to you catching you in the act and you hastily revert back to her wrists, feeling the crimson stains stinging your cheeks in embarrassment.

"I'd hate to see what you'd do to your cooking then," you mutter more to yourself, trying to clear the discomfort that has had settled inside your cheeks. You can see her sharpening frown from the corners of your eyes, and you shake your head with a little chuckle forming in your throat. "I didn't make the sandwich," you clarify the searching curiosity that frames her dark eyes, "I just took it off the grill and served it."

She's squinting at you again with uncertainty resting clearly in her scrutinising glare. It overpowers you for a moment and you feel yourself having to look away to regain your self control. You're almost done with patching up her wrists, she'll have to have the bandages on for a while before the blistering subsides. "So you're a waitress then?" she whispers so lowly that you're sure you've missed it, you've imagined her speaking. You look at her questioningly, wondering why she has chosen now to speak after holding her tongue for so long. But you're glad she is talking, a far cry from the silent, broken form that didn't seem to suit her. You have to keep her talking even if for a while, if only it's just to enjoy the soft rhythms of her voice.

"Sorry?" you feign your mishearing, and she sees this, she knows you heard her, yet she's willing on this occasion to repeat herself. "I assume because you bring me my food that you're a waitress somewhere," she replies, her eyes jumping wide for a second, as if to show her frustration in having to repeat it. But it's for show; she doesn't mind repeating it, because if she did she would never have said anything in the first place. "Well I got fired," you answer back with a little smirk toying with the edges of your lips, "you see there was one particular dissatisfied customer, they threw the food at a wall."

She's smirking back at you, a hidden laugh is trapped between her teeth, and you know you have her now on your side. "Well I guess the service hasn't been too great in this place since I got here," her words turn colder, as does her eyes, finally bringing you both back to where we had started from; her on one side while you're trying desperately to swim over. It's a clear invite for you to engage in a comeback to allow her the advantage of telling you what she really thinks, but you don't take it, you don't want the argument to follow, you just don't have the energy for it.

"You'll have to be careful with these," you gesture to the small, white bandages that cover her wrists, "you can't get them infected." She throws you off your own words when you see her lick lightly at her bottom lip, her expression clearly not interested in your medical advice. She turns away from you with a heavy sigh, "so what you're a doctor now?" You drag yourself out of the fixated stare you've fallen into at the enticing sight before you. "Not really," you answer truthfully, and then you see her confused, wary frown asking you silently to elaborate further. "I mean I dropped out of med school after the lessons on how to bandage blisters up."

You can tell by the narrowing of her eyes that this isn't want she had wanted to hear. Then you recall back your words, noticing yourself how they sound like another mindless joke, a little humour to break up the awkwardness of the entire situation. "I'm a researcher," you clarify finally, hoping that she would accept this as a good enough answer. She pauses for a moment, obviously still not sure whether she wants to believe you or not. You don't blame her, she doesn't know you, all she knows is that you're with them, you're one of them to her, and it sickens you to acknowledge this.

"So are you a doctor or aren't you?" she frowns even more, a little too cutely than you expect. You start to explain the difference, but stumble over your words knowing that she doesn't want a long winded lecture; she wants to know yes or no. "Yes, I'm a doctor," you sigh out finally, and she nods curtly accepting your answer as the truth. It's one step in the right direction at least.

There's a tepid trepidation lingering in her warming eyes, and you can feel that the questioning isn't quite complete. It's natural though, you can understand that, if you were in her position you'd want to know everything about your captor to comprehend them as a person, to figure out their weaknesses and exploit them to escape. You pause. The realisation hits forcefully like a narrow dart stabbing into your brain with a newly discovered truth. She hasn't given up on escaping at all, in fact she's probably formulating a plan right now, all she needs is some delay tactics.

"I don't know your name," she exhales noisily, snapping you straight out of your wandering thoughts. Suddenly you notice the growing tiredness that surrounds her body, the weight on her eyelids are fluttering heavily and you begin to realise that you're stupid for thinking that she's creating a master plan to escape. She's incredibly weak, she hasn't eaten anything, who knows when the last time she had any food was. "Juliet," you murmur under your breath, still trapped inside your thoughts. She bounces her head lightly to show she's heard, she seems happy enough that she knows something about you.

"You need to eat," you state, causing her to look at you sarcastically, "I mean it, Kate, if you don't eat soon you're going to collapse." Her eyes flicker away in annoyance, the same determination has returned again from before, and she's adamantly going to play the refusal game again. "If I go and get you some food will you promise to eat it and not paint the walls with it?" you ask her politely, hoping that she'd soften into doing the right thing. "Only if you bring me something nicer," she smirks, glad that she's got the last touch on giving in. "I'll even make it myself this time," you grin back at her, raising your eyes slightly at her in a bid to augment her challenge.

There's a new sparkle of innocence that leaves its trail of purity along the outer rims of her eyes, as she laughs softly, almost inaudibly. But as much as you strain your ears, you hear it, and it warms you into believing you're not such a bad person, despite all the things you've been forced to do. She's relit the dying light of your faith in yourself, allowing it to burn with a new courage that one day things will be better.

It makes you wonder how she can allow her innocence to naturally show even through the relentless vigour of her unbroken determination to survive. Her file doesn't do her justice, you come to conclude. It didn't warn you that there was a softer side to this woman, that she was able to uphold a childlike fragility amidst the chaos of a threatening world. It's like she's fighting everything, struggling against nature's bond of her troubling past to set herself free. You can only stand back from her in pure admiration with the upmost respect, because you know it's something that you could never do. You gave up trying so very long ago that you've forgotten how to start fighting again. Yet you still feel the stings of the shattered fragments slice into you from an unforgotten argument with your life that haunts you. You're not strong enough to fight, but you're weak enough to argue. But as you stare into the comforting traces of her little smile, you come to realise that there're may not be a need to argue anymore.


	7. 6: You Will Ignore, I Will Pretend

**Chapter 6: You Will Ignore, I Will Pretend**

The distant rusted brown colour only serves to make the large cage appear even uglier and obtrusive. There's no doubt in your mind that this is the very reason why you are deemed the enemy. It's almost as if Ben is purposely going out of his way to make them hate you all, as if he feels the need to play into their warped ideas that you are to be feared and despised. If only he would treat them with a little more dignity and respect, they would be more likely to respond to his questions much easier than the backwards method he insists on using.

It's not much that sits neatly on the white place that's currently in your hands, but you have stuck to your promise, you made it all yourself. You're sure that it will help to win at least a little trust from the brunette, after all, you have helped ease the pain that's probably itching at her wrists. You can see her before she sees you. She's sat carefully tucked up inside herself into one of the corners away from the door of the demoralising cage, with her head firmly fixed in the opposite direction.

You don't understand why Ben has moved her here into the open breeze of the outdoors, locked tightly behind the cage bars. She had been perfectly fine in the holding room inside the station. At least there she was out of the cruel elements that the island forces upon its occupants, one moment it's burning through your pores, before ripping up your skin with a vigorous bout of chilling rain.

You're well aware that someone else from her camp is occupying her former holding cell; Shepherd. It's beyond your comprehension to appreciate why Ben has bothered to make such a fuss about moving the prisoners around. Like it makes a difference where they are held, they're still prisoners no matter what type of handcuffs they wear.

You stop before the cage door, bending down to place the white plate and bottle of water on the floor in preparation to open the offending bars of the door. You pause when you see where she's looking, how focused her eyes are on the line beyond the trees, which marks the end of the station's territory. Her eyes are unwavering, almost not blinking away from that same spot, and it finally dawns on you the very malicious reason why Ben has put her here out of all the other places. She can see her freedom, she can probably even taste the sweet droplets teasing at her tongue. It's there, just beyond those trees where she longs to run to, and Ben knows it. It's one of his many vindictive tricks, a clear advantage that he's seen and has exploited for maximum effect. Out here in the wide openness of the island's inviting arms, she's stuck inside the forbidding space teasing her into believing that she's so close to her freedom.

You give a heavy sigh for her, unable to imagine what harsh turmoil is creating an unpleasant chaos inside her from knowing such sickening taunts. Ben really is the ruthless demon who demands everything and gets more. The door squeaks open, and her eyes finally drift over to you casually, making no sign to even stand at your presence. You leave the food and the bottle of water just inside, and you know you're supposed to lock the door now. You're supposed to leave, but you linger for a longer moment than you should.

"I hope you like it this time," you say to her softly, making her look at you again, and causing an unknowing smile to creep onto your face. "Thanks," she offers back weakly. It's the first time she's thoroughly polite, without any hidden bitterness biting at her words, and you can tell that it's a struggle for her to do, especially to you. To her you're still on the wrong side, you're still very much one of them, you're just the nicer version who mops up after their brutalities, the antidote to their vicious mind games.

"How're the wrists?" you ask, gesturing with a nod to the filth that has stained the white material already. She glances down and inadvertently touches one of her bandages with her soft fingertips, before she screws up her face to tell you that it's nothing, there's no pain at all. She's lying. You can see the subtle grimace that picks at the corners of her mouth when she thinks you're not looking. It's stinging her more than she cares to let you know, and the rough texture of the bandages will probably not help her cause, but at least they'll minimise her chances of infection.

"Juliet," you spin around at the loud rattle of your voice across the far end of the yard. It's Ben standing with a narrow glare shadowing across his eyes. You turn back to the brunette with a solemn sigh fighting its way out of your mouth. "I guess I'm not the only one in trouble," a small murmur comes from not so far away. Your eyes shift over to her, realising it's her that's dared to speak eventually.

She's got a suspecting smirk toying with her top lip, naively damping down her silence to let you know that she's seen right through you. It frightens you a little to unwillingly give so much away in a simple motion, or maybe you're just anxious at how easily she can read your actions. You squint at her in a threatening gaze, how ironic it is that you're the one who hates people being able to read you, thinking that they know you, that they know who you are, yet she's not once voiced her outrage at every detail of her life being known by anyone who's read her file.

The heavy clang of the padlock sounds through out the yard, and you take no pleasure in walking away from her sullen pose in the corner of her locked prison. Her words still echo in your ears as you make your way to Ben's feet, wondering what you're going to be challenged for now. "I need you over at the work site," he informs you simply, his tone is more assertive than ever with you, and you can only assume he hasn't taken too kindly to your sympathies for the brunette. Good. You smirk inwardly at him, pleased with yourself that you've managed to win something over on him.

You glance backwards over your shoulder to see the brunette staring back at you with her rosy cheeks swollen slightly, as her jaw moves rhythmically against the food. The heavy tinge seeps away from your guilt ridden shoulders, silently thanking her for giving into the food you've prepared for her. "I see she's gained herself a personal doctor," you hear the low voice ripple across the short space to your ears, "that'll come in handy."

Inwardly you flinch at the reality of his threat. You know how positively real Ben's threats are, you've tasted their richest poison before. You narrow your eyes at him. He knows you're not scared of him, only of what he can do. It's a baited line, hanging with patience to see if you will catch it and respond with a venomous reply yourself. But that's what he wants, that's what he thrives on. You don't want to spare him the time, he's not worth it.

The dazzling glare shimmers across the dusty earth of the work site, and the intense sharpness stabs spitefully at your eyes. Even under the small tin canopy there's no escape from the ferociousness of the sun's constant stare. The wild heat romances with the dryness of the ground, kicking up its cruel fervour on the heightening temperature. Simple droplets of sweat are already forming along the familiar tracks of previously broken drips. It feels like the island's untamed breeze has deserted you here for the time being as punishment of some kind. The only short lived salvation is the tepid water sealed inside the flask that lays amongst the scattered sheets of paper bearing various drawings and plan details that you're only supposed to read and instruct from, not understand what they're for.

Pausing for a moment from the heavy markings on the white pages, you look around at all the quiet, solemn faces that litter the work site, each one casually carrying out their work with their minds deep in concentration about home time. You mutely wonder what reasons have come to bring them here to this gruelling chastisement. You know that Ben only uses this exercise as way to reprimand anyone who's dared to fall from his powerful control; it's a simple method to bring them closer back under his watchful wing. Even though you're only conducting the work, managing the steady progress of the unknown project, you can only feel you've been placed here out of punishment also. You know the only reason that has saved you from shovelling the dirt like most of these other unfortunate people is because you're of some value still. You're still a useful medic, the only decent medic around since the lost of Ethan, who had been the only fully qualified surgeon. So you're safe for the time being, until Ben finds another substitute.

"Work's going slowly," a heavy sigh echoes from beside you. You turn to see Danny standing with his hands on his hips, busily scattering his eyes across the slow moving workers. "I thought we'd have finished this section already," he adds, dropping his eyes to the carefully drawn plans lying untouched on the makeshift table. "So what's new on the drawing board?" he asks, leaning over the table and tracing his finger across the various straight lines over one of the pages. "We need more rocks to make the foundations," you reply turning your attention to where he's pointing on the plans, "then we can push forward and start laying this section." He just simply nods his head a few times in response, already seemingly knowing the answer before you'd said it.

The sudden bout of hurried shuffling sounds and angry taunts catches in the web of your ears, forcing your attention to the struggling figures in the distance. You recognise the long waves of darkened brown straight away, it's her and your sinking heart slips further from your reach. You swallow at the sour taste the guilt leaves inside your mouth, consuming every little bit of your tongue. It's not like you didn't see it coming, you always knew she would end up here eventually, you're just disheartened to see it this soon.

You can see that her hands are bound with the familiar shinning glint of metal cuffs again, and it only worsens the sickly feeling building itself around the dams of your stomach. The rough blistering that scarred her wrists would only decay into more horrid bruising and painful sores. You watch as she fights against the man who's trying to drag her into the direction of a huge pile of unbroken rocks. Doesn't she realise that the more she fights against the strength of him, the more she's allowing the handcuffs to cut deeply into her already fragile skin? Her determination is something of a plague for her, always seemingly causing her more harm than good, yet she still wills herself to try.

She's still in the same floral dress as before, the thin material barely touches the tops of her knees, and the simple straps leave most of her shoulders open to the casting heat from the sun's burning glare. Her hands move quickly to wrap themselves around her bandaged wrists, tenderly rubbing at them as she's finally freed from the offending shackles. She growls at the man who hurriedly steps away from her in visible fear. He points forcefully at the pickaxe that waits for her at the pile of dirt covered rocks, and you feel yourself sigh at the pitiful act that unravels before you. It tugs violently at your patience, knowing full well that Ben is behind all of this, that he's most likely enjoying his smug little self over all of it in the cooling shade of his own home.

There's an unnerving laughter echoing from beside you and when you turn to see Danny, his face is shadowed in a satisfied arrogance while he watches Kate from a distance. "Well at least she comes in handy for something," he mutters through his laughter. You narrow your eyes at his blatant ignorance, turning back to watch her struggle with the heavy pickaxe. The sight blinds you with a tormenting vividness, teasingly carving uneasiness into your eyes. "Can't she be given some decent clothes to work in?" you spit with a little too much venom than you want, making him turn to look at you sharply. "What do you care about what she works in?" he asks back, and you can see his frown from the corner of your eye, "she's one of them, they don't deserve anything decent."

Your squinting glare shifts to him, disbelief at his chosen words written clearly in your threatening eyes. "She's just better to deal with if she thinks she has a little more respect from us," you tell him forcefully, and you have to admit to yourself it was rapidly good thinking that saves yourself again from the long awaiting questions. He nods his head in a slow fashion, exaggerating the fact that he's understood your seemingly clever motives. "Well, maybe you're right," he sighs finally in his agreement, "do you mind sorting that out?" You smile softly at him before shaking your head at him and slipping out from under the overly hot cover of the tin roof taking the water flask with you.

The sun's frightful glare is pounding down upon you now, unprotected by the tinned shield that hangs above the table. There's a familiar crunching sound beneath the soles of your hardy trainers, as the loose gravel slips in between the treads. The closer you get the more stressed her little grunts become with every swing of her pickaxe. A deep casted frown appears on the rim of your brow, unsettled by the mixture of feelings she's inducing inside you.

She turns to glance over her shoulder, catching your longing stare. You've been caught. You can feel your cheeks burning with a dampened redness, and this time you can't blame it on the sun. You give a little cough, trying to clear whatever is scratching the inside of your throat. You're completely thrown off balance by the intimidating coldness that grips her eyes, dragging her head back to face the rocks before her. All that work that you had achieved, the small ounces of trust you had earned from her is all in ruins.

"Do you want some water?" you ask softly, holding out the water flask naively. She doesn't even acknowledge you this time. She's angry at you. You can't blame her really, not when she's here being forced to work in the boiling temperatures, but still there's a twinge of sadness that strikes you from within.

"Please take the water," you plead with her this time. You want her to know that this isn't because of you, she isn't here because of you. It's Ben that she should be directing her bottled rage at, this is all of his doing. Yet you're the one who has to face the snide glares, and the frosted words of feverish anger. You feel doused in dirt ridden shame, its guilty filth sticks under your fingernails while the shameful grime colours the rest of your skin.

She's reverting back to the thickly silence that she understands how to use so well. Her arms stretch out with the pickaxe swinging through the air down upon the rocks in a relentless motion. You know now that she's not going to budge from her dedication to act out through not speaking, but you're oddly surprised that she's quietly getting on with the task she's been instructed to do. You suppose you're expecting another outburst display much like the one she threw out against the food in her holding cell. Maybe she's steadying herself, leading you into a false sense of security before she strikes again.

"This wasn't my decision," you tell her quietly, as you bend down and leave the water bottle next to the pile of rocks she's ruthlessly breaking up. Her arms sway unsteadily with the heaviness of the pickaxe, pausing slowly before she slams it hard into one of the reddened rocks. You give a little sigh before walking away. You know there's no use trying to convince her at this moment in time. Her anger is too pure and too awakened to start believing what you want to say. She needs time to calm herself down, then you'll be able to approach her with a softness that might help to gain yourself some trust. For now though you're prepared to let her play the childish game that she likes to play so often. You'll let her explore the possibilities of her immature ignorance, and give her the space to self-indulge in her maddened arrogance, while you'll feign your hardened pretence to all of this. That way she'll think she's won a little self pride, she'll think she's gained herself some authority from you, and so she won't feel as threatened when she finally agrees to talk to you again. Yes, Kate, you think to yourself, you'll let her ignore, while you'll pretend.


	8. 7: Liar

**Chapter 7: Liar**

You've been hanging around the entrance to the Hydra station for a while now, gently pacing up and down the concreted step outside the thick metal doors. As much as you're relieved that your shift as guard on the work site has ended, you feel helplessly stuck in an empty limbo with nothing else to focus your energies on. You're still pretending, yet this time it's for no one's benefit but yours. You're silently tricking yourself into believing you're there waiting for Ben, waiting for your next instructions as to what you're supposed to be doing, but the underlying truth stings in the back of your mind that you're really waiting for her.

You glance down at the wad of clothing that is bundled up inside the small bag you're holding in your right hand. This is just easiness having them with you, just in case she's brought back to her cage at the same time Ben reappears from the station, that way you don't have to come back unnecessarily. You scoff at yourself, knowing the idiotic logic would never sit well with Ben if he realised you're there.

There's a scuffling sound echoing from just beyond the trees and the familiar harsh rants filter into the air of the yard. You watch from the corner of the step where you know no one will be able to notice your presence. She's herded into the metal skeleton of the cage, the cling of handcuffs being announced as they're ripped off her wrists. She's spitting out vile insults, clearly making her opinions known about the unfairness of her treatment, but Danny isn't listening, he's simply mocking her between the bars, encouraging her to display more of her anger because he knows there's nothing she can do about her situation.

You give an arduous sigh at his untamed attitude concluding that you've never liked him for as long as you've known him. His shoulders sway with a defiant confidence, as he stomps off into the direction of the work site. You scatter your eyes across the yard carefully, listening to the dying sounds of footsteps, and you wait until you're absolutely sure that the small yard is deserted, before you make your move towards her cage. The cameras don't bother you, because Ben's nowhere near the surveillance room. You're quietly thankful for the minor issue that's directed his interest elsewhere, allowing you a small thread of freedom to pull at.

She sees you instantly, the crumbling noise emitting from underneath your shoes fails to keep your presence hidden. There's a quickening flash of surprise that lights up across her face, but it suddenly fades into the darkening glare she sets into her eyes, and an awkward disappointment tugs at your eyelashes. She's even turned her back now; her message is so silent but so eminently clear, she doesn't want to speak to you. You know you're not supposed to feel the cruel knife of disappointment slice through you, but the cool droplets of blood fill up inside you, making you consciously aware that the knife is still stuck there.

"How're your wrists?" you ask delving into a deeply profound déjà vu. You've been here before. But somehow this time the metal bars seem to be taunting you with their darkened orange rusted glow, not her. You're intimidated by their hardy strength, and for a moment you're almost convinced that you're the one locked behind their imposing arms. She looks over her shoulder briefly, and she must see the baffled frown written on your brow, because her eyes linger on your face for a second more than you think she wants to.

"I can get you some painkillers for the pain," you offer, glancing at the scarlet patches that have appeared against the whiteness of the bandages. Her eyes narrow sharply before flicking her head back around away from you. It's like you've reverted back to being the enemies you were right at the beginning. You're still being painted as the bad person, the person who's too tired to care, the person who doesn't want to understand. It weighs heavily down on your patience, knowing you're only like that because of Ben. It's not who you want to be.

"Are you hungry?" you ask another question, determined not to give up until you ignite a reaction from her whether it's a good reaction or not, "I'll cook you something nice again." You start to wonder to yourself where she learnt how to be so resilient against her captors with nothing but her powerfully perfected silence act. "Not that I can cook much," you mutter under your breath before adding in a louder voice, "do you like pasta?" She doesn't flinch either way, but it doesn't deter you away from wanting a reaction from her. "Cause I can cook pasta," you announce rather proudly.

There's a tiny curtain of a movement in the curls of her hair, as she tilts her head slightly to the side, the subtlety of her listening doesn't go unnoticed with you. You smile slowly, pleased at the tiny response from her, and it pushes you on to try to extract a word or two from her curiously inviting mouth. "I'll cook you some pasta then," you say aloud, making the decision for her.

You're at a loss as to know how to make her speak. You've tried everything, everything apart from one thing. But if you try that you fall into the trap of opening yourself up to her. You run the risk of leaving yourself wide open for nothing but trouble. Yet as your eyes devour the shapely figure in front of you, you can't help but wonder whether it's a risk worth taking. You glance backwards over your shoulder. You're still alone. You have the time to try this one last attempt, and blow out the air trapped in your lungs through your nose from pure confused frustration.

"None of this is my doing," you force out a little too harshly than you expect, "just so you know." Finally there's a waver in her concrete stance. Her head slips further around on its thin axis, and her jaw is visibly loosening from its tightened claws. She drops her arms from around her waist, and there's a hushed whisper which you think you've missed until you hear it again repeating on her soft tongue, "I know."

You're regaining your balance before the astounded revelation has time to knock you down to your knees. Is this just part of her mindless game in her plans for escape? Your mind casts back to the thickness of her file, to the scores of people she's tricked, fooled and used to gain her freedom. Are you just another name to add to the list? You drop your eyes from her, as you watch her turn around to you eventually. You're afraid to see the truth in the darkened orbs.

"That's why you let him speak to you like that," she utters slowly, "he's the one who's in charge." Your brow thickens in an irritated aggravation, she's right, of course she's right. Who wouldn't have seen that coming? But you don't want her to enjoy this moment, you still have some dignity that you're proud to stand by, she won't see your resolute expression foiled into weakened shambles. "That's not how it works here," you feel yourself snapping. She smiles lightly, already knowing this is all an act for her benefit. "If you say so," she quips back at you, "so what did you do wrong?" You flick your head sideways briefly, delighting in your ability to feign confusion so easily. She doesn't buy it though, and although you don't let it show, you're unnerved by her talents to spot denial. "Earlier," she speaks slowly but confidently, "Ben didn't look to pleased with you, so I'm assuming you did something wrong, I'd like to know what you –" you cut her off abruptly, deciding to finally answer her since you're intrigued to know why she's so bothered about you, "because I helped you."

Her assertive poise quickly looses its vividness, sharply disappearing into the background of her startled remorsefulness. She draws in a long lung full of air, folding her arms neatly back into place across her chest. You watch her as she shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, her head twists around as if to check if anyone else is watching you both. "So," you sigh, "pasta then." She flickers her eyes back to you with an uncertain surprise lingering untidily in the cores of them. You don't expect her to confirm if she wants any food at all, but you can't help but feel disappointed when she doesn't show any appreciation to your confession, the things you've risked for her.

You scoff at yourself inwardly at your foolish notions. She's a prisoner, she's supposed to hate the captor and at the moment that's you. How could you even possibly expect anything more? Turning away from the cage, you have to drag your feet to a halt at the memory of the weight hanging from your hand. You glance down quickly before pushing the bag in between two of the metal bars. You're not going to say anything, because there's nothing worth saying anymore that will help your defence. You simple walk away leaving her to explore the contents of the bag and allowing her to make up her own mind about which side you're on.

Time is escaping from you, which is highly ironic the more you ponder over its meaning since time doesn't have a reason on this island. It's just an element that's there to tie your feet firmly to sanity, failing to let you slip away into the floating clouds of your imagination where you could be somewhere else, far away from here. Of course you only get so far up before the cord tightens and drags you back down with the heavy weight of realisation.

You make the finishing touches to the freshly made pasta, smiling lightly at the neatness you've managed to acquire. You were never a good cook, and you never pretend to know your way around a kitchen, but somehow you've come to enjoy the little distractions that preparing food brings you. Compared to all the horrific things you've had to do in Ben's bidding, cooking is the one thing that returns you back to some sort of normality.

Making for the tough metal door, you start to struggle with the tray in your hands, and you can just foresee the bottle of water tumbling from the metal surface. The untamed squeak of the door startles you, and just as you predicted the bottle of water flies from the tray, bouncing untidily onto the tiled floor. You manage to keep the bowl of pasta sitting in the middle, as your eyes glance up to see Ben straightening his back, holding out the bottle of water. "More food?" he asks raising his faint eyebrows in mild suspicion. You remain calm, but you're prepared to take the bait this time, "in case you forgot she went a long time without food."

He looks taken back for second, genuinely surprised that you've dared to cross him this time, but then his eyes glaze over with an impressed fire, urging you to challenge him again. Everything's a game to him. He feeds off the power he exerts in winning a challenge, but not this time. "She does seem to respond better to you," he notes absentmindedly, "it's good; it means she can be useful after all." You narrow your eyes slightly, not enjoying the way his voice curls cruelly around his own words. "For Shepherd you mean," you mutter more as a statement than a question. He smirks at you and gives a quick nod of his head, "I'm impressed Juliet, I didn't think you had it in you."

You feel a sudden sickly itch rise up from your stomach at his appraisal. No neither did you think you had it in you. You certainly didn't before you arrived here. It wasn't a question of capability; it was a case of survival. Your voice turns colder and your words seem fiercely faked, but he's waiting patiently to hear them and he won't leave until he has. "Thank you Ben," the sickly feeling has almost edged its way into your mouth now, and you have to swallow down on its bitter flavour.

You make your move to pass him and through the open door, but his hand curls around your arm quickly, pulling you to a rapid halt just at the side of him. "But don't make the mistake of trying to be friends with her," he warns you in a low voice, "she's not one of us and she never will be." You frown at him cautiously, tugging your arm free from his tightened grasp. "I'm just trying to get her to trust me," you mumble quickly without thinking. "You?" he lifts his eyebrows, "don't you mean us?" You swallow at your less than helpful mistake; he's more than suspicious now. You've left yourself wide open for his attack now. "Just remember who's side you're on," he advices forcefully.

Nodding your head, you hastily stride out into the open air, quickening your pace along the gravelled path. You look over your shoulder and scoff at yourself for being so anxious about Ben of all people. It doesn't matter what he does to you anymore, doesn't matter what he forces you to do, because you've been through the worst already. Yet you feel compelled to stay within his instructions. He might have done the worst to you, but he knows everything about your sister, he has the power to put her through the same condemned hell, torturing her with phantom threats that would instil too much fear for your sister to cope with. You have to stay within the lines of his rules for her.

You're in front of the cage before your mind finally clears from the turning chaos that Ben's causing. You're surprised to see her standing so close to the locked door, usually she's curled up in one of the far corners out of reach. She's studying you closely, much too closely, and it's unnerving you slightly but you can't show it, you pull down the steel shutters and let them frost over your face.

You place the tray down on the floor, fumbling visibly with the keys in the lock before it clicks, and you can hear the familiar squeal of the door falling open. Dropping your eyes away from her focused stare, you quickly slide the tray into the space beside the door, before returning the metal lock back to its confined place. You draw in a hollow breath, knowing that Ben is probably on his way back to the surveillance room, eager to watch everything from the safety of his chair.

"What so you're not talking to me now?" she mocks from behind the bars, not even making an attempt for the food you've left for her. You glance backwards over your shoulder to the corner where you know the entrance to the station is, Ben's words beating heavily against your ear drums. Drawing all the energy you have, you refrain yourself from answering her. You have to show him whose side you're on, and at the minute all you have is your silence to provide the proof.

You turn to walk away. You've done what you needed to do. You look up to the small, slightly hidden camera, hoping that he's watching from behind its dirty screen. "Anyone would think you're the prisoner here." The words stab you in your back, so much so that you're already turning around to glare at her before you realise that your steel mask has been shattered into fragments of broken shame.

Her eyes are glazed over with a ghostly smile. Now it's her that's looking for a reaction from you. You spin around hotly and stride away as quickly as you can. That's the different between you and her, you still have the little bit of freedom left to be able to walk away. You round the corner and pause your feet, clear out of sight from the brunette, from anyone. You suck in a shaky breath, desperately trying to steady the rapid rising of your chest.

There's a scraping screech of the door and Ben appears, removing his perfectly round glasses. "You look tired Juliet," he comments dryly, "is this taking its toll on you?" You shift your eyes away from him, hating the patronising glare he's showing you. "No matter," he brushes over the lack of response quickly, "we'll be going back home shortly." Your attention is snapped into view at his words of home, but then your enthusiasm fades slightly, reminding yourself that he means the barracks, your temporary home. Your mind casts over to Kate, knowing that she's not allowed to come with you, and you can't stop yourself from asking, "and Austen, what's to happen to her?"

His tongue flickers out rapidly, scraping across his bottom lip sharply while his eyes glance to the side in a moment of pause. "I haven't quite decided," he announces dramatically. You swallow down on the rich sourness that has invaded your mouth; it's the taste of fear. "Why are we going back?" you ask suddenly. His shoulders straighten out, as if he's about to deliver an important speech. "The runway is almost complete," he states with an empty numbness lingering in his voice, "and well hopefully I'll be recovering soon."

Your jaw slackens slowly in contemplation of the new information. "So Shepherd's agreed to do the surgery?" the question falls out of your mouth without another second's hesitation. "He will do," he nods his head defiantly. You mock him inwardly at his foolishness to believe that Shepherd would ever cave in to do something as major as this for Ben. "So Juliet," he stresses your name with a long disgusting drawl, "I need you to stop befriending her, so that she has a reason to beg Shepherd to do the surgery."

You frown at him sharply at his incredibly patronising tone. "Can I count on you to behave?" he raises his eyes a little more, pushing you closer over the edge into a darkened pit of rage. "And what if I don't?" you ask sarcastically, already knowing what the answer would be. He smiles a little, pleased that you're challenging him again, "then I guess you don't get a pay rise."

His sadistic sarcasm leaves you rattled with a fresh new anger, urging you to defy him. He turns away from you, walking back inside the surveillance room. A fragmented smile splits your lips apart slightly, as you quickly shift your feet into the direction of the cages again. If he doesn't want you to befriend Kate, then that's exactly what you're going to do.

You stop just short of her cage door, staring at her as she's tucking into the hot pasta, shielding her mouth with her hand in a delicate manner. "What?" she snaps at you, the warmth immediately leaving her eyes. "If you could have anything right now," you ask slowly, "what would it be?" The edges of your mouth curl up a little, and you find yourself eagerly awaiting her answer with a strange curiosity building up inside you. You have to remind yourself that this is just part of your plan to wind up Ben, to annoy him.

She's looking at you like you've gone mad. Maybe you have. Her eyes are darting from side to side to check for someone else around. She thinks you're joking. Maybe you are. It's to irritate Ben, but why do you feel that this isn't just a joke? You're waiting for her to answer, but she's stalling cleverly, wondering when the handcuffs are going to be produced probably. "What do you want the most right now?" you ask again, this time you bounce your head lightly to try to convince her that you want a truthful answer from her.

She's still mute, but it doesn't matter really, you know what she wants, what she will ask for. She'll ask for freedom. She'll want to be let go, free to go back to her camp. You just want to hear her ask for it. You want Ben to hear her pleading words, to let him know that you're not the only one who wants to desperately escape. You're waiting for her to say the words that you've been saying since the day you arrived. You're waiting for her to share your desire.

"A shower would be good," she announces loudly with a laugh of irony about it. You frown deeply, not expecting that as an answer. You're shaking your head, clarifying to her that she can have anything, emphasising the anything part for her so that she will grasp onto the idea you want her to speak. "Anything?" she repeats and you nod encouragingly, "first I'd like a shower with hot water and some fluffy towels, secondly I'd like a lovely meal with some kind of expensive wine, red wine. Thirdly, I'd like a bed with soft pillows and proper sheets."

Your jaw tightens in frustration. Ben's probably laughing at the screens by now. This wasn't supposed to be her answer. Where's her determination? "That's really what you want right now?" you probe, raising your eyes with a glint of disbelief written in them. "Yeah," she nods with a straight face, "that's what I want." Her voice is threatening bitter, spitting the words out at you with an irritated gleam. "Fine," you sigh harshly, before adding, "I'll get them for you."

That would certainly be enough to annoy Ben to the point where you'd win at least some satisfaction. Yes, you'll arrange it all so that she'll have what she wants. You don't care if she is just saying such details to ridicule you. She'll get what she asked for, every single detail. You grin inwardly at how well it's played out despite not being what you've been expecting. You're bound to earn some trust from her when you organise everything for her. There's an image of her face when she sees that you've kept to your word, curiously toying with your mind, taunting you with her precious smile. You so desperately want to see that smile.

"Do you think I believe you," she scowls loudly, as you turn away from her to walk away, "you won't give me anything!" You allow yourself to smirk now that you're shielded away from her burning stare. She'll think differently soon enough. "You're a liar," she scolds viciously. You glance up at the camera, hoping that he's watching this, listening to her shouting words of rage. The brunette's insult is for him. It's not for you even though she's directing its vile meaning at you, it's for him. She's finally saying another set of words that you've been saying for so long; finally he's hearing those words from another desperate mouth. "You're a liar," she screams again, and you feel yourself silently mouthing the very same words along with her.


	9. 8: Ridiculous Thoughts

**Chapter 8: Ridiculous Thoughts**

You're standing in front of him with a silent, blank stare written across your eyes. The tips of your fingers are digging into the middle of your palms, as you ball them up tightly. You can feel the anxious sweat easily moving along the curving lines carved into your skin. You know what is coming. After all, you did ask for this to happen, you wanted to annoy him. His seemingly unwavering glare suggests otherwise though, as if he hadn't seen your disobedient stunt just a few moments before. His fierce eyes are wide, blinking slowly at you. Does he want you to say something first? You stand still with your mouth clammed heavily down. It'll be a battle of will then, because you refuse to be the one to speak first.

Carefully he draws in a profound lung full of air, before releasing it nosily. His head twitches towards the cameras, their filthy grey screens flickering back at him with nothing but the same view as before. His hands, you notice, are relaxed, simply hanging down from his short arms with a softened confidence, miles from your awkward tensed hands. He's enjoying this. The silence allows him to plan out the conversation, allows him to formulate words that will come much later on in the conversation.

"Shepherd's going to do the surgery," finally he speaks first, and the air is only alleviated slightly. It's not what you're expecting though. You suddenly grow very anxious in the wake of his announcement. Did he even see you approach the cages? You raise your head a little and look at him questioningly. You're not surprised because he's said that before. It just means that Ben is still overly confident that Jack will cave into his demands or his threats eventually.

"He's doing the surgery tomorrow," he clarifies, startling you into looking away from him. You're caught off guard by the fact that Jack has agreed to do something as drastic as saving this man's life for so little. You know instantly that Jack's sold his skills so cheaply, because you know Ben would never agree to give too much away. Your mind drifts to what the possibilities of their deal are. What has Jack asked for, but more importantly what would he get?

"Which means he needs a nurse," he interrupts your wandering thoughts, his voice is low and you can tell he's subtly ordering you to be at the surgery tomorrow. You shake your head slowly, readying yourself for a long bout of questioning. "I can't," you say quietly but firmly, "I have to run some tests on the blood samples I've managed to collect." He rolls his head around the thin axis of his neck, before his eyes shift back to stare deeply into yours. You feel yourself swallowing lightly on the nerves that have burrowed themselves into your mouth. "Can't that wait until after the operation?" he asks forcefully. Once again you can feel your head shaking, and your mouth saying, "I can't let them –" but he abruptly cuts you off with a louder tone in his voice, and his hand rushes up to silence you. "Please don't lie, Juliet," he warns, and you sigh with an awkward nervousness. He pauses for a moment. His lips are pursed even more with a very faint line splitting the top from the bottom. "It wasn't an invitation that you could decline," he tells you with a hidden threat sitting closely behind his glasses, "so you'll be there at seven sharp, is that understood?"

The simmering ruthlessness taints his eyes, welding themselves to yours as he always does when he wants you to obey his wishes. You give a half-hearted nod before turning to leave, but the toughened weight that rests on your shoulder fails to let your feet move any further towards the exit. "So I guess you don't want that pay rise after all?" You spin around to face him with a startled flush. So he did see. He lifts his lips up slowly, the faintest touches of an evil smile brushing across his mouth. "I'm curious though," he tilts his head mockingly to the side, "as to how you'll cope when she's gone." You watch mutely as his smile grows viciously across his face.

He can surely feel your questions burning into his skin without you having to form the right words. Your eyes are wide with a naked fear wrapped untidily with a blanket of anger. He breathes in rapidly through his nose, as he lifts his head up in unashamed glee. "Well," he stresses carefully, "I guess since Shepherd's agreed to do this, we have no reason for Austen to be here anymore." You glance away from him with a soft sigh, realising the full extent of Ben's plan. "How did you convince him to do it?" you asked finally. He just smiles back knowingly, before adding, "same way I convince anyone to do anything, Juliet, blackmail."

There's a spoiled taste that's leaking into your mouth. You know only too well what it is that Ben's referring to. You've been there, you've seen his malicious talents at work, you've been beaten heavily by his hammering words that threat against all that you care about. Everyone crumbles at his hands, everyone. Even Jack it would seem. "It's a pity Austen couldn't have been more helpful," he comments loosely, "I rather enjoyed her dramatics."

He passes you slowly, the painful heat still burning your shoulder from where his hand had held you. You watch him slip out of sight around the corner, and finally you allow yourself to relax, but you instantly know that it won't last for long. It never does on this island. Even more so now that all these new people have arrived.

It's still plaguing your mind even when you're trying to get some much needed sleep. You can't recall the last time that you fell into an undisturbed sleep. The cramped camp bed does nothing to ease you into a gentle slumber. The harsh, brown fabric of the blanket scratches at your skin, and the plain white sheet is so cold that it pains your joints to lie upon it. You're almost relieved to know that you'll be back in a proper bed within a few days. You shift uncomfortably across its small space, the twang of the springs shatters through the air rudely, and you give a disgruntled sigh, as you settle back into another awkward position.

The frustratingly anxious questions about what will happen in a few days to come are still hammering at your mind. You wonder silently if she's worried too. Does she ever worry about what happens next? How would be plan her runaways? Does she plan at all? The bank robbery that she conducted haunts you. She must plan, or how else would she have managed to break into a bank and also escape so easily? You don't understand how effortless it really is for her. It bothers you to know that her life is so easy, that she can make her life so unproblematic because she knows how to runaway.

The ageing springs are cutting into your side again and you try in vain to move slowly, quietly into a better, more comfortable position, but there isn't one. Does she have this problem, you wonder? Does she get irritated by the thought of sleeping in a strange place? Then you remember she doesn't even have a bed, you do. She sleeps in the openness of the island's forever changing temperament. The hard pinch of the ground is her mattress; you on the other hand have at least a softened mattress to lie on.

You will yourself not to think about her situation, forcing yourself not to picture yourself in her place instead. It's bleeding into your mind and no matter how much will power you put in to halting the blood stained picture come into focus, it's there and it's taunting you with a heavy shame. You quickly claim that it isn't your doing; none of this is what you want. How many times have you said that? How many times have you wished that were true? But it is your doing, you're on Ben's side, you chose to come here.

A painful sting feeds into your left eye, gravity's brutal hand dragging it further down your cheek and dampening your soft skin as it trails down your face. You remember the day you chose to come here. You willingly drank from the glass containing the sedative, wanting to believe that something far better would awaken you from your sleeping state. How wrong you were. It was a mistake. A simple mistake, nothing more, but still it hurts you to know how much this one mistake has cost you. As the single tear comes to rest on your upper lip, you can taste the salty regret creeping further into your being. For a moment you wish your sister was here to sooth away all the disjointed melancholy, but then you remember the island's cruel hand that holds your invisible shackles, and you silently pray that she will never get caught by the same brutal hand.

An empty breath catches between your teeth, as another betraying tear slides down the same path the first one had. You swallow hastily at the salty sourness that dances across your tongue, and your frozen anger melts just enough to reach your finger, flicking away the insulting droplet that dares to touch your skin. You instinctively close your eyes, fighting against the desperate helplessness that invades your shattered emotions. You have no option but to pull yourself together. How else will you face tomorrow?

You scoff lightly through your nose. Tomorrow will just be another loose thread in the intricate weaving that you're forced to wear. You scoff again. You have no intention of carrying out the operation as Jack's nurse. Your mind draws you back to the thought of Kate and her tested determination; somehow it wills you on to take a step closer into her world of rebellious traits and defiant attitudes. This is your only opportunity to swallow your fear, to go against the set rules, and to go against Ben's last word. Why would you not take it? It's time that you did cease the chance, especially when there are people now that are on a different side to Ben. Yes, that side that you so feverishly want to be on. Now you have the chance to move over to that side, to do the right thing.

The pensive decision steadies your broken nerves. The sinful tears have been pushed far back into yourself that you can no longer find them. That's how you like it to be. You've cried far too much in your life. Finally you've relaxed yourself into a state where sleep is carefully stroking at your eyelids. You've done this before. You've talked yourself out of crying about your helpless cause, you've tried to put reason to your situation, and above all, willed yourself to carry on. And you're reward for this? A few hours of undisturbed sleep, and a welcomed dream of your sister's forgiving smile.

It soon fades away though into streaks of colourless grey hues, and replaced by several new colours that are somehow harsher than the grey could ever be. For a moment you're confused as to where you are, but the shapes align themselves properly and the colours deepen, reminding you of exactly where you are. You lift yourself wearily from the stiff mattress, and your cheek momentarily sticks to the corner of your very flat pillow. You swallow down at the sleepy dryness that has captured your mouth, there's still that subtle hint of salt sitting on your tongue. You hastily wipe your hands clumsily over your face, hating the fact that you allowed yourself to sink into your moment of weakness.

You swing your legs over the side of the small camp bed, your bare feet slamming harder than you had anticipated onto the hardened coldness of the tiled floor. You wince at the sharpness that twinges against your toes, sighing with frustration at how low the camp bed hovers above the floor. Your eyes shift across to the bright red figures that are silently laughing at you from the table next to the bed. It's only five. You could have another hour's sleep, but you know it's pointless. You're awake now.

You throw the rest of the scratching fabric away from you, relieved to have it away from your skin at last. You're enveloped in the cold now though, you can feel the small draught gathering around your knees and pulling at the fine hairs across your bare arms. You aimlessly tug at the white t-shirt you're wearing to cover more of your skin but it's simply not big enough to stretch. You stand up slowly, the vivid pain is still biting at your toes, and you mentally curse yourself for not paying more attention.

Tomorrow is now today, you come to realise. Today is the day of the operation, and as you're quietly trying to make your way over to the shower, you allow yourself to smile, because this is your chance to gain a little of authority back from Ben. With the tepid warmth of the showering water, you carefully go over the details that you've already planned. You know what you're doing, but you're so used to going through plans time after time with Ben that the habit has stuck firmly.

By the time the clock blinks to seven, you're already standing in the operating theatre. The clinical blue is overwhelming you, as you stand beside the table and only half listen to the instructions that Jack is informing you about the procedure. The fabric of the white mask is already tickling your nose, and you're suddenly impatient to rip it away from you. You look around you and watch as the other three people nod their heads enthusiastically towards Jack. You inwardly scoff at their deep concentration, knowing deep down that they don't want to be there either. You're confident of their abilities though, they will help Jack in your absence, and they'll do it because they're all too frightened of Ben to do any different.

You swallow quickly, as Jack is about the make the small incision. This is your chance. As soon as Jack makes the incision he won't cancel the operation. The silver blade dances across the pale skin of Ben's back and you have to hold your breath until you see the trickle of scarlet spill from its path. You hurriedly step away from the table, ripping away at that irritating mask finally, and start to head towards the door.

You're surprised to his voice. You were expecting one of them to speak up and question your daring move towards the door, but not him. He's more condescending than you like him to be but you ignore it, telling him that you have something to do. The others are staring at you now, their eyes wide with shock and fear. He wants to know where you're going, and you're not afraid to speak the truth. But still your answers don't satisfy him, and a deep frown settles uncomfortably across your brow. What does it matter to him? He's still Ben's prisoner. You have to remind him of that otherwise you'll never get through those doors.

"You'll do the operation," you speak firmly, "otherwise whatever Ben promised you in return, be assured it'll never happen." His eyes narrow, and you can see the soft material of his mask moving in and out telling you that he's breathing heavily probably from frustration. He wants to retaliate but he knows you're right, and besides Tom appears at the doors of the theatre stalling any chance that Jack has of asking you anything else. Tom's shaking his head at you in confusion, whispering at you as to what you're doing. You push past him into the coolness of the hallway and instantly he follows letting the heavy door swing shut again.

You take a deep breath and brush off your hat that covers your head, before letting your hands rest onto your hips. "I'm working," you tell him with a steady voice. He screws up his face at your cryptic answer, expecting you to tell him more. "I'm going to do some tests on Austen," you clarify and he seems to appear more baffled than before. "Why now?" he asks with uncertainty, as he glances back over his shoulder towards the operation through the window. "Didn't Ben ask you to be here?" he continues, and you maintain your eye contact with him, you've got nothing to hide. "He did," you nod, "but there're far too many people in there already, and these tests are going to take a while."

He pauses for a moment and you almost sense that he doesn't quite believe you, but finally he gives a small nod. "I guess if it's that important than you better go and do it," he surmises, "but don't you think he's going to be a bit angry when he wakes up to find you've gone without his say so?" You smirk lightly at the corners of your mouth, it's a nervous one though, you know perfectly well that Ben will be more than a little upset when he finally comes around from the operation, but isn't that the whole point? "I'll be sure to leave a memo then," you reply flatly, before turning around and starting to walk away. He calls after you though, stopping you in your tracks, "you're going to move her on your own?" You twist your body around and give a quick nod of your head, it's clearly not what he wants as a reply though, as he adds, "be careful then Jul, she can be quite the Houdini." You allow yourself to smile properly at him at his kindness not to ask anymore questions or worse to refuse to let you to move her at all. As much as Tom is one of the nicer people on the island, he is still very loyal to the man laying on the table that you've just left.

You head quickly into the store room just down the hallway, and you already know where the sedatives are kept, since you've been sent so many times to retrieve them. You're careful to pick up two packets and slip them safely into your trouser pocket. The pair of metal handcuffs that seem to have been used so many times this week are hanging neatly from the hook behind the door. You never understood why they were kept here, but either way you're glad they are were you thought they were. It makes your task a lot easier. You stuff them into your other pocket of your blue scrubs, and the coldness is suddenly sharp against your thigh.

You make your way around the station as quickly as your feet will allow you, finally stopping at the surveillance room, where you know there are some guns. You are against using them. You hate having to hold one, you were never brought up to acknowledge the use of weapons, but you've been instructed to use them around the island under the pretence that they will somehow save your life. You shudder at the icy touch of the black metal, as you slip one of the pistols off a hook and stare down at its vulgar form. You can remember vividly the first day you were ordered to hold one. You can remember the paralysing fear that had gripped you, as you were taught how to use it.

Of course it had taken you much longer than Ben had wanted for you to learn all the small details of using various different guns. It hadn't come naturally to you, but no one can notice the struggle that you had had in the beginning, because you're so confident now with any weapon that is thrown your way. You grimace at the thought of how much practise you've had over the three years with a gun. Too much practise you suppose, but you can't regret any of it because you're still here, you're still surviving. Slipping the heavy metal into the waistband of your blue trousers, you try to shake off the memories that haunt you. You pick up your feet and will yourself to move, as you're conscious now that the hour glass is steadily filling up.

It still seems so incredible to you that you've got this far in disobeying Ben's firm instructions. But you're very precise in the details, because there's still a line that you can't cross no matter how much you want to ruffle Ben's feathers. So the sedative is a must. You don't like using it but there's no other option available to you to do it any other way. You pull a disgusted face at the slightly lime green cloud that is floating slowly towards the bottom of the bottle that holds the water. You screw the lid back on tightly and shake it furiously, hoping that it dissolves enough to trick the brunette into drinking it. You remember the vile taste that the sedative leaves in your mouth, there's no way of covering it up, she'll notice for sure, but you have to somehow make her drink it.

Standing before the cage door, it's only now that you start to feel the jolt of nerves wriggle desperately inside of you. She's staring at you from behind darkened eyes and gritted teeth. She's clearly not pleased to see you, and nor would she make this easy on you. But what do you expect really? She's stubborn, it says so in her file, you even highlighted it for heaven's sake. There's no emotion in your glare back at her, it's the same cold, blank expression that you've come to rely on now. Somehow it only infuriates her more. But there's something that makes you blink twice, and then again. You try your hardest to maintain your frozen stare, to keep the startled surprise from seeping into your pores, and it works, you don't let on that you're shocked. But you can see the striking resemblance in her face to the small pictures that are inked into the sheet of paper in her file, and you're once again reminded of the small ounce of innocence that lightens up the back of her eyes.

You let your eyes fall away from hers because it's too much for you to watch. You place your hand through the bars, holding out the bottle of water which is a murky grey colour now. She's looking at you questioningly. "Drink it please," you instruct simply. You don't want to make this any harder than it already is. She stares at you in disbelief, and you try to ignore it from the corner of your eyes. "I'm not thirsty," she snaps back, folding her arms defiantly across her stomach, as if it was amplifying her point.

Drawing in a quiet breath, you soften your voice a little, almost to the point where you're pleading with her, "just drink it please." You can see her scoff at you from the corners of your eyes, she really isn't going to make this easy for you. "What is it?" she asks you with a sting of bitterness biting at her demanding words. You sniff lightly at the air, wishing that she would just do as she was told for once. "Just drink it please," you re-alliterate forcefully, and she seems taken back slightly by your sudden aggressiveness. "You think I'm going to drink it because you said please?" she spits back, stepping closer towards the bars with a threatening anger flashing in her eyes.

You clench your jaw tightly, wishing that it wouldn't come to this. You feel dirty for falling so low, for doing exactly what you hate Ben doing, for lying to her. "I just assumed that you'd want to see your friends again," you raise your eyebrows at her a little. Her eyes widen from their gruelling squint and you can see the questions already forming in her mind. "What have you done with them?" she demands roughly. Well you've surely done it this time, you've opened up that can of worms again. It's not like you weren't expecting it, but still it feels like you're going around in a tight circle that you can never escape.

"I'm taking you to see them," you state softly, but you feel the need to stress the next part, "but first you have to drink this." She doesn't believe you. You can see the clear disbelief in her face, but she wants to see her friends. Friends, you repeat to yourself in your head, you wonder how friendly she's been with both of the men that are still being held prisoner. You're curious to know, but you're silently pleased that there's still something you don't know about this woman, somehow it atones for knowing everything else about her.

"No," she shakes her head hurriedly, "you're lying again." You blink your eyes slowly down away from her condemning ones. You wait until she's quiet again, as she starts to pace angrily around the cage. You can't argue with her, because she's right. You are lying. "Please just drink," you try again, and the line is thinning between your lips, as you tighten your jaw. She's laughing at you now, mocking you from inside the bars. "You must think I'm stupid if I'm going to drink that," she calls out at you.

"Suit yourself," you raise your eyebrows a little at her, a streak of sarcasm thickens your voice, "I'll tell Sawyer you said hi." You start to retract your hand slowly out from between the two bars, but there's a flicker of realisation inside her eyes that tells you she's about to give in. She steps forward hastily and snatches at the bottle just before it has chance to disappear out of her reach. She yanks it forcefully from your grip causing the hollow crackle of the plastic to ripple through the air.

For a moment she wears the same deathly stare that she had once worn before when you had offered her food and she had ended up created a rather crude masterpiece across the glass wall. You falter inwardly, is she about to do the same trick? You instinctively want to take a step backwards, because you realise there's no solid wall between you to stop the impact of the water. But that would be an inviting admission for her to do exactly that, so you refuse to move your feet. You wait calmly but firmly for the sour reaction of the young brunette.

You're clearly surprised when she decides to snap the lid off and takes a rather generous amount of the liquid inside the bottle, but you remember not to show it. There's a faint raise of your head and a tiny twitch that tickles the left corner of your mouth, but nothing else, never anything else. "Thank you, Kate," you say flatly, as you stay to watch the effects of the fast working sedative.

She sways unsteadily on her feet, her eyes are blinking madly, as if the light is far too bright for them, and before she can comprehend what's happening to her, her knees fail her and throw her to the floor. You move towards the door, already fishing into the pocket of your blue scrubs for the keys. By the time you move into the cage she's already passed out, the water bottle tipped over and spilling the last remaining drops of the contaminated water.

You take a deep breath now she can't see you do so, steadying your unnerved anxiety. You pull out the pair of metal handcuffs from your other pocket and the guilt starts to pour quickly from your forehead in streams of sweat. This is only a precaution, you tell yourself. You want to make Ben angry, you want to upset him, but if Kate ever managed to escape from you in the meantime, then the line would be crossed, and you can't even begin to imagine what Ben would do to you if that ever happened.

So you hesitantly slide the metal rings around her wrists that still have the dirt stained bandages clinging to them, but you don't tighten them too much. They're loose enough to not cause any pain to her. You're not him. You won't do that to her. Not that she will notice, you suppose, handcuffs are still handcuffs to her. You assume she'll wake up even more irritable than before since you've quite plainly lied to her and handcuffed her for good measure. But you don't want to think about that right now, you have to concentrate on how you're going to move her down towards the boat.

You scoop up around her arms and drag her backwards by her shoulders. You're amazed at how light she is, you'd expected it to be a little harder. The sun's heat is scorching your back through the material of your scrubs, and by the time you make down to the shoreline where the boat sits tidily in the sand, you're soaked in sweat. You can feel it trickling down your neck in untimely trails, staining places of your scrubs, and you quickly realise that you'll be worse for wear by the time you reach the other side.

You carefully place her inside the wooden boat, and you suddenly find yourself wanting to take back your previous statement that she's light. You can feel the ache in your arms after you've managed to get her inside, laying her at the end of the narrow boat so that you can keep an eye on her, you tell yourself. The water's thrashing across its open landscape a little too much than you prefer. It won't make it easy paddling on your own against its defiant toughness. To make matters worse there's a hollow darkness creeping in from the thin line of the horizon; you just hope you'll reach the other shore before it unleashes its fury on you.

You can feel every muscle in your arms tighten when you push against the wooden boat with all your force. It slips casually into the swell of the water, splitting its darkened blue hues into an explosion of white. The frosty bite seeps through your scrubs, as you wad further into its depths to meet the boat. You give a final glance back over your shoulder and you half expect to see a group of people running out of the trees with their guns waving madly in the air yelling at you to turn the boat around. But as you had suspected, no one ever worries about the motives of another person within the cosy little group, they leave that up to Ben to deal with.

Even the flicker of white streaks in the background against the blackened skies can't seem to hold your attention for very long. Your eyes keep wandering back to her, sprawled out at the other end of the boat in her unconscious state. You're not worried about her waking up anytime soon, that dosage of sedative is designed to keep someone sedated for a long while. But you are anxious about what you're going to accomplish when you get to the other beach. You start to ask yourself if this was the right thing to do, or are you just asking for trouble? Of course you are though; you want to show Ben that you won't always do what he tells you to do. That in itself is trouble. But you've simply had enough of just following instructions, you're sick of being Ben's pet for him to command around whenever he feels like it, and you're tried of this relatively small island. You're making a statement, you tell yourself, Ben won't listen to you so you've resorted to taking matters into your own hands to prove to him how serious you are.

You find yourself swallowing at the salty air that whips into your face fresh from the open sea. How will you explain all this to her? How will you explain this to Kate, the fugitive, the escapee, the killer? The last words rattle around inside your head and even the paddle pauses in mid air in your wake of who this woman, you've just kidnapped from her cage, really is. You look at her again. She doesn't look like a killer. In fact you're convinced that she doesn't look capable of such a crime. But you know she is, you've seen the evidence, you've read the statement from her mother than tells you she is guilty.

Breathing out slowly and deeply, you continue paddling, realising that you have to just get on with what you've started. There's no point analysing the details anymore. There's still a vast amount of distance to cover before you hit the other beach on the main island, and so for just a little while you allow yourself to filter out the constant buzzing of ridiculous thoughts from your head, because you know you'll have plenty of time for them to burrow at your conscience.


	10. 9: I'm Still Remembering the Day I Gave

**Chapter 9: I'm Still Remembering the Day I Gave My Life Away**

The rain is hammering at the thin glass of your windows, the distant drumming of thunder announces the storm has finally reached the shores, and you're surprised that you had enough energy left to carry the brunette up to the barracks and inside your house before the downfall had begun. As you pad out of your bedroom drying your damp hair from the shower you've just taken, you remember to check on the handcuffed brunette you've left on the sofa.

She's exactly how you left her. The sedative still hasn't worn off yet, but you're sure she's going to awake any moment. You're preparing for it. You know she'll be more than furious with you though, because she isn't where you told her she would be. Sawyer isn't here, neither is Jack and once she realises this she'll want your blood. You look down at her wrists that are still bound by the rings of loose metal. They won't save you from her wound up wrath. You swallow against the realisation, until your fingertips trace over the gun that you've hastily tucked into the hem of your clean jeans. You swore you wouldn't use it, you hope she's sensible enough not to give you reason to use it, but you have to remember the line. You can't cross that line, because you know what will happen if you do. You've seen it happen before, and no matter how strong you pretend to be on the outside, you can't deny the grotesque fear that grinds at your insides.

A sharp intake of breath disrupts you from your meddling thoughts and you automatically look across at her as she jumps up suddenly from her sleep. You can see the remnants of the sedative still working against her heavy eyelids, the confusion isn't helping her state much, because her breathing is rapid and for a moment she even looks like she's about to be sick. Then she hears the familiar cling of metal around her wrists, probably feels the coldness around her hands, before her confusion fades to frustration when she finally sets her eyes on the offending handcuffs.

You steady yourself calmly, regaining your usually frosted composure. You narrow your lips and fill the backs of your eyes with an unreadable numbness, just in time for her to glare up at you with an expression that is a mixture of disgusted bitterness and bubbling rage. She starts to stand to her feet, but the lasting effects of the sedative are still faintly gripping her body, making her sway and almost loosing her balance. You're about to take a step forward, until those eyes meet yours again, and the pure hatred you see in them makes you think again about where you want to stand.

"Where –" she tries to speak but she stops herself when she hears how rough her voice sounds. Somehow you already know what her question will be. Of course you do, she wants to know where Sawyer is, or where Jack is, or where she is. You take a slow subtle breath in through your nose, inwardly sighing it back out at the predictability of the brunette. Then she'll want to know why she's here and not in her cage. It's frustrating you to know that this is how it is playing out, but really, did you see it going any other way?

"Sit down," you command softly, gesturing lightly with your head at the sofa behind her. She frowns sharply at you, while the rage simmers dangerously close to boiling point in her eyes. She's refusing to. She takes a step forward towards you and you straighten your back nervously a little more than it already is. "Sit down, Kate," you say it again, this time adding her name, as if that would make a difference. She's still shuffling forward and even though you don't show it, you panic, reaching behind you for the fail safe, the gun.

She visibly stiffens at the sight of the black pistol being pointed at her face. It works, not that you ever doubted it would, but it's still strange to see the flicker of fear between her brown orbs. You're slightly disappointed that you've had to reveal the weapon at all, why did she have to make things so hard on herself? You're fighting with the urge to admit that you're being unreasonable. Would it really be so different if it were the other way around? You suppose not. You just hate being the one on this side of the fence, but one more glance at those handcuffs convinces you to stay where you are. It doesn't look too rosy on her side either.

"Would you please sit down?" you plead finally, loosing at little of your resilience that you had a moment ago, and she notices it. She retracts her steps and falls back against the cushions of the sofa, bouncing slightly as she settles herself onto the edge. "Where am I?" she asks the question that you've been waiting to come, "are we home?" You stall at the mention of home, you weren't expecting that. You tighten your lips together at the cruel disappointment of having to tell her the truth about _home_. "Ben's version of it," you mumble back to her, lowering the gun from her direction.

Her eyes linger on the black pistol for a few moments, before she allows herself to fully take in the rest of your living room, and the fake normality that it holds inside every little ornament. "So we're on the island still?" she manages to whisper in her hoarse voice, "I mean you people have houses, actual houses?" You give a little sigh, wanting to tell her that it isn't as great as she might seem to think. She's laughing in amazement now, her eyes greedily drinking in every detail. "You have a TV?" she raises her eyebrows in wonderment. "Don't get too comfortable," you remind her harshly. She isn't supposed to like it here. She's supposed to want to leave the island, like you want to leave the island.

She looks back at you with a sudden frown edged deeply across her forehead, her anger for her current situation has returned, and the bewildered amazement has now vanished completely. "Comfortable?" she retorts back, repeating your own word for extra emphasis, "how can I possibly get comfortable here?" She huffs out some extra air and throws herself back against the back of the sofa, before she starts with her questions again. "What is this?" she snaps, "first it's that weird cell, then the cages, now a house, what next, a hotel suite?"

You twitch your head at the foreign sound of her sarcasm, and you figure that she's spent far too much time with Ford to be able to pick up lines like that. You don't say anything. Nothing you can say will ease her rage about what has happened to her. "So what, is this your house?" she raises her eyes expectantly when she quickly realises you won't say anything. "It's where I live, yes," you answer carefully. It's the truth in your eyes, you only live here, it's not necessarily your house, because you know your real house is back home in Miami. "And why am I here?" she sighs dejectedly. You're surprised that she's given in so quickly. The fire that had swept up around the back of her eyes is now just a low light that scowls at you from afar. It's nothing like its intimidating heat that had just moments ago been burning your skin, and melting your rigidness.

"I believe you asked for a shower," you answer back plainly. You watch as she sits up instantly, her face wild with a hungry wonderment at your inviting words. "Bathroom's down the hallway to the left," you motion towards the narrow hallway behind you, "there's plenty of hot water and I've left you some fluffy towels." She's gawping at you with her mouth slightly agape. The startled confusion is something of a picture that paints itself across her delicate features, and you decide that it's much nicer to stare at than the image of a shattered, angry woman that you've witnessed so many times in the past couple of days.

"You serious?" she nods her head, as she screws up her face in disbelief, "you brought me all the way here to give me a shower?" Why can't she simply be thankful for the things that you're doing for her? She's starting to irritate you now with her constant questioning of things, you think silently to yourself that she should be grateful that you've gone to so much trouble just for her. "No Kate," your voice is hard, stressing her name slowly and sharply, "I brought you out here to keep you out of the way." Her frown deepens and carves unruly lines across her skin of her forehead. You know what's coming, another question. "Keep me out of the way of what?" she doesn't disappoint you, and there's a gentle curve that touches the left side of your mouth a little. "Ben," you answer simply.

Her clear lack of understanding isn't foreign to you. She hasn't been around long enough for her to understand Ben at all. She's seen many sides of Ben, of course, you know from the ugly red colouring on her wrists and upper arms that she's seen at least one side of him, but she doesn't understand what he can truly be like, how honestly brutal and evil he can really be. No one understands that better that you and you assume no one ever will. "He doesn't like your attitude," you try to clarify for her in terms she will understand. She expels a noisy gasp from her lips, as she looks away from you to her right side, towards the door you notice. "That's what you get for locking me in a cage and making me break rocks all day," she spits out through her gritted teeth.

You want to explain to her that it was all Ben's doing, you desperately want to cease you're opportunity to tell her everything, but you know it's too soon. You need to gain her confidence, you need her to trust you so that she doesn't then go and repeat everything to Ben. "Do you want that shower or not?" you force back at her, pretending to ignore her jibe. She looks back at you, and you can see the returning flames dance wildly across her eyes. "Well there isn't much point if I've still got these on," she answers back, causing you to squint your eyes at her sarcastic tone. She's definitely spent far too much time with Ford.

Taking a cautious step towards the sofa, you take the keys out from your pocket of your new trousers, all the while your watching her suspiciously. You're well aware that she could jump at you at anytime, knock you unconscious and make an escape route for the door. The weighty heaviness in your other hand reminds you though of who has the most control over this situation. You hold on tightly to its cold embrace, knowing that this is the only thing that will possibly keep you alive.

"Are you going to behave?" you ask her seriously, but not expecting a true answer from her. She laughs at you as you stand in front of her. She holds out her hands in readiness for the triumphant cling of the keys inside the lock that chimes in time with the bells of her freedom. "Please," she laughs again in a low, almost mocking voice, "if I'd have wanted to misbehave, I wouldn't have asked you for the keys." Now it's time for you to frown deeply at her. She licks at her bottom lip sardonically, before elaborating on what you already knew but had just momentarily chosen to forget, "I just want my shower."

You know there's a chance that she'll try to escape through the small bathroom window, but you're not worried about that, you have set the sonar fence for any intruders or any escapees. You have to trust her. Naturally you're more anxious that you're going to end up in a headlock with her strength crushing down upon you, but you have to swallow at it and free her from the annoying cuffs. Instinctively you grip the pistol a little harder, your index finger sliding down towards the trigger in unreasonable anticipation.

Cold eyes never stray from your flittering eye line between her and the cuffs, as the key clicks and the rings loosen their bonds around her wrists. You stand up straight again and watch her silently while she rubs at her wrists intentionally at you, no doubt trying to make you feel even more guilty. You don't let her see that though of course, you don't want to give her anymore ammunition for her to be able to use against you.

You quickly learn that she doesn't even need to know anything about you to be able to get at you. Her fist moves faster than you're prepared for. There's a split moment after the impact of her strength where you realise you should have foreseen this coming. This isn't the first time she's tried to attack you, how easily you forget. You don't have time to scold yourself for your lack in remembering the details because between the startling pain that vibrates through your nose and left cheek and the faint trickle of blood that has begun to pour from your nostrils, she's making a brave attempt at prising the gun from your hand.

Swinging your body around to the left you manage to just barely keep a hold of the pistol, as she looses her balance in between the narrow space of the sofa and the coffee table. You still don't learn to move with a hasty pace out of her manic path, because she grabs your right leg, pulling at your jeans until you too loose your balance and land uncomfortably onto the floor, hitting your head harshly against the edge of the small table.

There're too many throbbing pains stabbing at different places on your body for you to concentrate on just one. She's dragging at your hand now, scrappily fighting for the gun that you still possess. You kick her away in her stomach, and she instantly recoils, giving you time to shuffle away from her and find your unsteady feet. You stare at her from your safe distance behind the black pistol that is reflecting the tiny glints of daylight that still manage to filter in despite the torrential downpour. You're panting against your own unbroken fear, and the fragile relief that momentarily pats you on the back for your swift regain in control.

"You just want a shower huh?" you retort back to her sarcastically through your heavy breathing. You steady the gun with both hands, you're scared that you'll shake too much if you only use one hand. She's sucking in air hurriedly on the floor just in front of the sofa, curled inwards around her stomach, her hands massaging gently the exact spot where your foot had slammed violently into her. "I lied," she gasps out, her forehead creases against the blood that is flowing to her head, "just like you lied."

The words feel sharper than her fist had felt. No matter how true they appear to be, they feel ashamedly dirty, vile, and cruelly unfitting for your real good nature. No, you want to scream at her, no, those words are for Ben, Ben's the liar. But it doesn't matter how loudly you screamed them at her, she wouldn't be able to hear you for the static interference that Ben's lodged inside her ears. All his lies are real for her. He's made her believe that you're just as evil as he is.

"I didn't lie," you slip out finally, trying your hardest not to sound too wounded. "Then where's Sawyer?" she snaps back at you through gritted teeth, "you said I was going to see him, you lied." You sniff lightly at the thickness of blood that is tickling your nose, because you know she's right. You did tell her that Sawyer would be here when she woke up. So you are just as bad as Ben? How does it feel to become a graduate from Ben's school of lying?

Lonely, you mutely conclude to yourself. You can feel yourself getting led further into the hall of mirrors, you have no idea how you got there, but you still close your hands tightly around the thin piece of string that you blindly follow in hopes that it will direct you to a way out. Yet it's never ending. The mirrors are still there with every turn that the piece of pale string guides you through. The plainness of the glass taunts at you from afar, distorting yourself into incomprehensible fractions of yourself. You're surrounded by these foreign faces that somehow you realise they resemble your own face, not that you remember what your real self looks like. So many faces, but they don't fill the gaping hole that loneliness has carved into you.

"I want to see Sawyer now," she demands ruthlessly behind her curtain of pain. You readjust your hold around the pistol since you're a little frightened that she isn't taking your threats seriously. "I don't think you're in any position to start demanding things," you inform her forcefully, and you see the mild surprise light up the back of her eyes. She huffs a small pocket of air through her nose, almost bordering on a laugh, before she gathers her weight together and lifts herself up against the legs of the sofa.

She's staring at you still from behind those narrowed eyes, sitting on the floor with her back crashing into the back of the sofa. "You drugged me," she states flatly, "kept me in a cage, watched me break rocks, and now you're holding me at gun point, I think I ought to get at least a phone call for my troubles." You don't take kindly to her sarcasm; it doesn't sound right rolling off her tongue. "I want to see Sawyer," she snarls again a little louder than before.

"That isn't going to happen," you answer simply, and instantly regret the straight forward attitude that you've adopted when you see the glint of disappointment swirl inside her eyes. "You can still have your shower if you still want it," you offer in a lower and slightly softer voice. She looks away from you rolling her eyes as she laughs quietly in sarcasm at the options available, "you have it." You're quite aware that your arms are beginning to ache, and the straight line of your pistol is wobbling from the tenseness that is gripping your arms. Slowly you lower it from her and allow yourself to smile a little at her, "oh that's thoughtful of you Kate, but I've already had mine thanks."

She snaps her head back into your direction, her hauntingly empty eyes have filled up with something that you can't quite read at first, but you feel you've seen it somewhere before. She clearly hasn't understand your poor attempt at trying to lighten the situation, she thinks you're mocking her and she's clearly insulted by the way that she's regarding you with an open stare of chilly hatred.

"Do I need to cuff you again?" you ask her while you still have her undivided attention. She doesn't answer you, instead her eyes fall to the open metal rings that sit abandoned on the floor in the space between us. You understand her silence is the only way that she can keep her pride in tact and that she doesn't want to see those things ever again. She grips the edge of the sofa from behind her and slowly eases herself up onto its gentle material.

"But I would prefer you to shower if you're going to sit on my furniture," you inform her in a flat tone, as if you were addressing a child. You don't mean to be condescending to her, it just sort of falls from your mouth quicker than you can catch it. You don't really know how else to speak to her. You've not mastered the art of speaking to her and getting through to her yet. You're so used to hearing that kind of ruthless patronising from Ben that you simply think it's commonplace and it's almost drilled into your phrasebook that you don't even realise you're doing it.

She's staring at you with a silent interest and you don't know why until it dawns on you that you've probably not hidden your grimace too well from your deeply confusing thoughts. You straighten your back a little more and take a deep breath, before raising your eyebrows coldly at her. She takes the hint finally but not without a little smile pulling at the delicate edges of her mouth. She stands to her feet slowly with her hands resting on her thighs until she finds her balance. Instantly your fingers curl around the weight of the pistol without thinking. She's stepping towards you now with a cocky smile still bending untidily at her mouth.

"Don't worry," she laughs lowly when she sees you flinch for the second time, "I'm too worn out to fight." You want to believe her, but she's fooled you too many times already that you know she can't be trusted. Didn't her file tell you this though? She's a trickster and a user, of course she can't be trusted. You watch her pass you slowly while her eyes are stuck firmly on the gun this time. It unnerves you the way she's studying the details of the pistol, and you can see the want explode from the centre of her eyes in shadows of determination, she wants the gun. You pull the gun closer to your side and you gradually turn your body around to keep your eyes on her as she passes you. She notices because she rips her eyes away from the gun back to glare at you.

She pauses her feet for a moment. There's a small gulf of air that sits thickly between you, but it is close enough for her to reach you if she wanted to. You ready yourself for her attack. You won't be caught looking like the fool again. She leans her head towards you with an intimidating pace, before telling you, "your nose is bleeding." You gently wipe at your nose, rubbing the scarlet stickiness around on your thumb with a mild shock running across your face.

She stalks off down the hallway towards the bathroom. There are already some towels and some fresh clothes waiting that you chose to leave in there for her after you had finished having your own shower. That's if she even chooses to use them. Who knows what she will do when she gets inside the bathroom. Threatening images reveal themselves to you inside your mind's eye that reminds you of her rebellious nature throwing a tantrum at the glass wall. You glance behind you with a sense of worry gripping hard at your shoulders. Maybe you won't even have a bathroom left to speak of, or maybe she won't even be there in another fifteen minutes. You realise of course she'd be stupid to attempt to fit through the small window of the bathroom, but something tells you, maybe a line from her file tells you that she'd be willing to give it a go if it means a step closer towards her freedom. You shake your head at your own foolishness. She can't get far though. The fence would block any of her planned escape routes.

You give a little huff. You're defeated. There isn't much else you can do but trust her and hope that she just has her shower quietly. A fallen disappointment creeps onto your shoulders, replacing the worry that had just lain heavily a moment ago. You're disappointed that you can think this badly of someone so quickly. Was this how you were brought up to think? Your parents would surely be ashamed that you've judged this young woman so hurriedly and on what basis? Information gathered by one of Ben's very loyal followers, a likely place to start basing your assumptions on. What would your sister think? She of all people would frown at you with a clear distaste for sudden judgments.

Rolling your head up to the right, you try to fight back the swollen tears that are threatening to betray your confident, resolute coldness. You know that if she was here she would be reminding you of all those darkened moments in your own life where they could be slammed with condemned judgment of their own. She'd remind you that no one is judging you for what you've done, so why would you let yourself think you are better than Kate to do the same thing to her?

You press your index finger and thumb into your eyes, rubbing at the closed eyelids to rid yourself of the tears. You aren't crying because you're disappointed in yourself though, you're not even crying because you've disappointed your sister, you're crying because you can't remember her voice that is telling you she's disappointed. You can't recall any of the softness in her voice, you can't remember her accent, you don't even remember if she had an accent at all. It pains you that the simple memories of your former life have vanished in a matter of years. You wonder silently to yourself how long it will be before you loose the image of her face, since you have no pictures of her to adorn your walls or your shelves. How long will it be before you can't remember anything about her? It's bitterly cruel how the details of your sister are slowly eroding from the frail tapestry of your memories, yet the day you arrived on the island shall forever remain so ardently vivid in between the threads of your mind. You fall victim to the dread that sets itself firmly into your pores. The dread of not remembering your sister, but still remembering the day you gave your life away.


End file.
